


Middle Age Spread

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (I can't believe there's a tag for that), Alien Sex, Bottom!Kraglin, Bottom!Yondu, Discussion of Abortion, Dual Genitalia, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Kink Meme, M/M, Mpreg, Porn With Plot, Switching, Unplanned Pregnancy, Yondu's too old to get preggers. Right? RIGHT?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yondu thought he was too old to get knocked up. Yondu was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClassicalTorture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicalTorture/gifts).



> **I know M-preg usually involves butt-babies but nothing creeps me out quite as much. So have Yondu+vag. You’ll find out why later, because I’m incapable of writing porn without providing accompanying plot.**
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> **Also, it’s new-comic Yondu – but in the film setting (if that makes sense?) Because tattoos and ear piercings and teensy bit of chub and getting kicked off Alpha-Centauri for being a dick, all speak to me.**

Famous last words oughta be something impressive. Like “I’ll see you in hell!” or “If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me!” Failing that, Yondu always figured he’d aim for the cruelly ironic, such as “You ain’t seen the last of me”, or “Over my dead body!”

“Just jizz in my cunt, don’t wanna get the desk dirty” is not on that list.

Unfortunately for both of them, Kraglin’s not practiced at disobeying orders. “Yessir,” he pants, hot breath breaking over the sweat on Yondu’s back. Stoops to plant a kiss, right there between his heaving shoulderblades.

He nips. Cheeky fucker.

But Yondu doesn’t have time to complain; Kraglin replaces his mouth with his hand, pinning him at the nape with his cock still squelching between his legs. He only ups the ante once he’s gotten his captain’s ears to that shade of royal blue that means he’s close to cumming, biting his lips bloody in the effort not to groan and cunt dancing around him in fluttery clenches. Every time Kraglin’s hips plow forwards, every time he cleaves Yondu open and hammers in to the root, until Yondu’s navy outer folds smear his groin with slick and his cock’s buried in hot wet velvet; the hoops in his captain’s ears bounce and jangle. Kraglin bites one, questing out Yondu’s clit amid the sluice of slippery lube as he slurps out and slams back in. He gives it a tweak, walks his fingers up further so he can roll his balls around his palm, and manages one last coherent thought before spurting his captain full.

It’s a good thing he’d sucked Yondu off before he’d started fucking him, or else that desk would’ve just gotten messy anyways. And that Yondu can’t get it up twice in one round no more.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks. That’s the time it takes for a carrying species with a nine-month gestation period to start suffering from morning sickness.

Centaurians don’t have a nine month gestation period.

Yondu wakes up in the morning, yawns, farts, kicks Kraglin until his first mate’s coherent enough to stumble out of the room a calculated fifteen minutes before him and remember their lie of _breakfast meeting_ should anyone ask. Then sticks a hand under his soft cock to slot fingers inside of himself. He has a lil’ jiggle around to see if there’s anything left. Nope. Musta got it all when they wiped up before hitting the sack.

He stretches luxuriously. Yawns again. Figures pants are a good way to start the day, and pushes up to begin the hunt.

Then his eyes bug out, he clutches his stomach, and stumbles out of bed in time to not get puke splattered on the sheets. The wastebin ain’t so lucky, but he’s been meaning to empty that for the past month anyways.

Yondu wipes his mouth. Crawls shakily up the back of his chair to standing, and waits a tentative second to see if anything more’s due up.

Fuck. Time he got a new chef – this’s the third bout of food poisoning this _month._

 

* * *

 

Only, when he marches up to Shorro in the canteen and heaves his pudgy, tentacular body up against the far wall, everyone looks confused rather than raving for blood.

“Uh,” says Kraglin, hand hovering above his shoulder. “Sir. Whatcha doin’?”

“Bastard mixed up the spices and the sterilizing salt again.” Yondu shakes Shorro’s head so the soft squid-like sac concaves on the corrugated food hatch. Glowers at Kraglin over his shoulder. While his first mate’s all white and pinched around the face, he doesn’t appear especially peaky, and the worry in his eyes is probably due more to the fact that he’s in charge of hiring new staff when Yondu kills them, than fear that he’ll be seeing last night’s dinner. Yondu frowns. “Ain’t you been sick too?”

There’s a long pause. “No,” says Kraglin, at the end of it. “Um. Have you?”

Everyone’s staring. Huge fucking ring of huge fucking eyes, some cycloptic, some bioptic, some compound and the odd one blind, but all unerringly turned in his direction. Yondu slowly lets Shorro plant his tentacles on the level, although he keeps his fists clenched in his jacket collar.

“You ain’t been sick,” he reiterates, flaring his crest in the vain hope it'll be able to sense if the Kraglin's lying. No such luck. Yondu gleans what he can from his face - bewilderment, laced with an utterly inappropriate concern. The former sentiment infects everyone not too hungover to realize what’s going on, and Yondu turns in a circle, appraising his crew one by one. “None of ya.”

“No sir,” echoes around the breakfast mess.

Shit.

Yondu forces a grin. “Hey. Thas good news. Keep up the good work, Sho.” He pats the big guy on the cheek, hooks a bowl of plain gruel off the counter – looking at the cans of fat orange grubs makes his stomach attempt self-defenestration through his pouch slit – and stalks to find a bench as far away from the rest of these buggers as he can get.

They’ve left him to fight through a stomach bug on his lonesome. Traitors.

Silence follows. Shorro bobs his head and squawks weird non-translatable squid-speak, leaking puddles of nervous mucus. He squidges back into the kitchen, casting anxious glances at Yondu the whole way. Fuck – after _that_ display, the jittery fucker’s gonna be hiding in his galley for _weeks_.

Yondu ignores him. Yondu ignores them all, concentrating on the mechanical hoist of spoon to mouth and back again, scraping claggy porridge from the sides of the bowl. He ignores Kraglin most of all. This is difficult, as Kraglin has designated himself _looking out for captain_ duty on top of all the others associated with his job title (supporting Yondu in the field, gutting anyone who questions his orders, and occasionally fucking him over his cluttered workdesk). The skinny Hraxian perches on the bench opposite and clatters his tray down.

Orange larvae, swimming in their own stewed secretions. Yondu swallows a gag.

“Sir,” says Kraglin, as the mess hall’s bickering hubbub returns. His presence is enough to convince the crew everything’s under control – Yondu’s not sure if he should be glad or kinda grumpy, that the fleet’s named Kraglin his personal defuser without consulting him first. “Sir, are you alright?”

Yondu considers. Ladles porridge onto his spoon, pretending to be engrossed in balancing it over the lip of his bowl. Then slams the handle down, activating the rudimentary trebuchet and catapulting a fat blob of gunge into Kraglin’s eye.

“Yeah,” he says, as his mate yelps and flails. Uses the distraction to casually bump Kraglin’s tin so those squiggly, nauseating worms spill into his lap. “I’m fuckin’ _wonderful,_ darlin’. Thanks for askin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commemt plz


	2. Chapter 2

Hint number two comes when he sleeps through first shift. Yondu wakes to the blare of his comm: Kraglin, calling to see if he went on a binge last night, or has choked on vomit and promoted him by default.

“Sorry t’disappoint,” Yondu says, digging groggy fists into his eyes. Then, because Kraglin’s evidently fulfilled his first-mate-ly obligations and covered for his captain’s lazy ass – “Overslept. I’ll take one of yer night shifts.” A boon that’d be offered to no one else. But hey; a captain can never be too careful, and Yondu’s seen enough rivals spiral down in smoke to know it’s never wise to put yourself in your second’s debt, even if they’re regularly sticking their dick in you or vice versa. He nods to Kraglin and snaps the comm shut, hoping the wrinkle in his pillow isn’t grooved too deeply into his cheek.

A button on the wall folds out a full-length mirror, buffed silver overlaid in glass. Nicked it off some fancy freighter or another; its ornamental mother-of-pearl edging is out of place in the Spartan rust-speckled room. Yondu prods his dented cheek, pulling a face at himself.

Blue brawn, ceding to something a little softer. Darker tattoos that musta been done by someone as drunk as he was when he’d ordered them. Muscles not quite as toned as they used to be.

He rolls his eyes, and banishes the mirror behind the panel. Yeah, he’s getting on a bit; but he can still pick Kraglin up and fuck him against a wall and that’s what matters. In fact – that sounds like an excellent plan. Yondu taps out a message as he saunters over to the crumpled pile of leathers. _Clear ur schedule 2nite. And ur ass._

Whatever sickness had afflicted him hasn’t passed – the rolling motion of walking evokes nausea, and his mouth tastes like old pennies and acid. But he don’t feel the urge to abuse his poor trashcan again, so he tenderly eases his shirt over his chest – _ow_ ; did Kraglin bite last time? – and starts snapping straps and buckles into place.

Ain’t no worse than a regular bout of spaceflu. He’ll live.

Although, spaceflu’s never made it feel like he’s being hoisted off the ground by his nipples. Yondu rubs his chest again, wincing as he scrapes the leather over a pebbled nubbin. They ain’t usually that sensitive. Not even after Kraglin’s sucked ‘em to navy – and certainly not that… _plump_. A quick pass over his belly reveals that the other four, usually hidden behind the line of his pouch, are similarly affected; four tiny outdents that press into his palm through jacket and skin alike.

 _Weird_.

Unlike most species, there’s actually a reason for Centaurian males to have nipples – the ones in their pouch, at least. Mamas feed babbies from their tits once they’re big enough, like most mammalian derivates across the quadrant; but before that, when they’re squirming through their secondary gestation, they’ll get their sustenance from their da. Or, if he’s been killed in a tribewar (or gutted by a raging boarbeast, or simply sloped off on a hunt at the wrong time) their uncle, grandfather, or big brother. There’s a reason why all younger children in a clan were referred to as “son” or “daughter”, and why Yondu’d had such difficulties working out the difference between “uncle” and “brother” when he found himself among the stars – although of course, everyone had assumed something else, something which required correction with the aid of whistling, bloody knuckles, and several broken teeth. Twelve toes are the _usual_ amount for a Centaurian, he’d have them know.

…And, why’s he thinking about this crap? It’s been years since he was part of a Centaurian unit. Tossed off the homeworld for being too rowdy and rambunctious – or so went the official story. He doesn’t miss it one bit. Prideful uppity pricks, the lot of ‘em. Good riddance. Heck, when he heard about the cataclysm, first thing he did was roll out the whiskey and raise the universe a goddam toast.

Yondu gives his stomach one more exploratory poke. Then snorts and boots open the door.

Definitely no kid in there. Spaceflu must be mucking with his hormones. Again – annoying, but not debilitating. Might have to warn Kraglin, or the dumbass’ll lick his teats and wind up with a radioactive arrow warming the space between his ears. He heads for the Bridge, gritting his teeth until the yawns stop coming, and collaring Quill when he passes him on the way. Boy’s thirty-three and annoyingly _big_ , but if Yondu hooks him into a headlock, he can still haul him down to his level.

“Hey, kid. Where you off to?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Quill says from his armpit. Wriggles obstinately, realizes he’s not going to be released any time soon, sighs, and lets his head dangle limp. “What do you want.”

“Details. Y’see, I was goin’ over stats for that last job ya pulled, and – well, whaddaya know? Client claimed she tipped you an extra hundred units, but I didn’t see a whisker.”

“It was a _tip_ ,” argues Quill, smacking at his leatherclad bicep when the forearm over his throat tightens. His face has gone an interesting shade of pink under the gingery stubble. “You got your cut of the actual reward – which, if I might say, is fucking extortionate –“

“Hey! Y’know half my share goes back into keepin’ this girl in the air –“

“Which still leaves you with about as much as me, if we discount all that’s frittered away to fuel the rest of your crew’s partying. And you didn’t even go on the job!”

 _Our_ crew. That’s _our_ crew. But if Yondu says that, Quill’ll know he’s picked up on it, and he can’t be having that, can he? Won’t be long before the boy splits; gets cold feet; feels the lull of the open stars. He bitches about going solo whenever he’s in a grump, but lately those ugly, fast-spat words have been less vitriolic and more wistful. Yondu just hopes that when he does leave, it’s without much fanfare. Otherwise he can, and will, hunt him down.

“Like you don’t booze it up with the rest of them,” he argues instead. Releases Quill, but keeps within grabbing range in case he tries to bolt. “How many ladies’ve slapped bounties on you cause you kept flirtin’ in front of their menfolk?”

“Hey, ‘Gravarian Duchess’ was only a title; they were one of those funky inter-gender types…”

Yondu cuts him off. “You’re almost more of a hassle t’employ than ya would be to kill, boy. So, three quarters of that tip comes to me, like we agreed…”

“I signed that contract when I was – what, eight? Isn’t it null and void by now?”

Chuckling, Yondu reaches up – can the asshole stop being so _tall_ – and gives Quill’s hair a friendly ruffle. “Ya know me by now, boy. You really think I’m ever gonna let that go? Now scat. I’ll see ya on Bridge this afternoon.”

“It _is_ this afternoon…” Quill pauses. Blinks down at him, head cocking slightly to one side. “Uh. Are you oka – I mean, you look like shit, captain. Drinking alone ain’t healthy.” Aw, he’s worried. Cute. Yondu snorts, smacking him upside the head – but more gently than usual, fuck knows why.

“If I were, it ain’t none of your business,” he says. But while Quill instinctively clasps a hand over his cheek – then frowns, when he realizes the blow wasn’t even heavy enough to raise the blood to the surface; more a pat, really – he doesn’t use it as an excuse to stalk away. Instead, he shuffles his boots over the floorgrills and mumbles into his collar:

“Heard you weren’t well.”

 _Kraglin_. Maybe he ain’t getting a fuck tonight after all. Maybe Yondu’ll just get him horny, tie him to the bed, then leave him to sweat it out while he lounges at his desk and finalizes that contact for the Broker he’s been putting off for the last coupla cycles. Yondu cracks his knuckles. “I look sick to you?”

That makes Quill balk. “No. And you don’t need to whistle to prove it to me – I believe you. Honest!” Oddly, it hasn’t crossed Yondu’s mind. Rather, he has to hold himself back from the sudden and utterly absurd urge to stop Quill giving him that nervous, spooked side-eye, like he’s expecting a kick any moment, and draw him into a hug.

Yondu shakes himself. This flu is _serious_.

“Whatever,” he croaks, turning away before confusion can register on Quill’s mug. “Want to see that money in the joint account before the end of the shift. Gottit?”

“Yessir.” That should be that. But Yondu feels Quill’s eyes on the back of his neck, long after he’s rounded the corner.

 

* * *

 

Kraglin shows up at the allotted time, gaunt and scarecrow-thin in his jumpsuit. He’s gangly and hairy and his tattoos squiggle up his neck like drunken spiders, and Yondu’s never wanted anybody more. He’s supposed to be angry at him though, so he plasters the feeling under a healthy dose of irritation – ain’t Kraglin’s place to go spreading it that he’s sick, ‘specially not to Quill – and hauls him up against the wall.

“Gonna make you beg tonight,” he promises, which, given what he’s got planned, isn’t an entire lie.

Like this, close enough to breath each other’s sour air, their senses are saturated; everything’s bathed in the rich stench of worn old leather, engine fumes from Kraglin’s last shift, that fuggy testosterone gym-smell that billows about the Bridge and refuses to be dispelled no matter which setting the fans are clicked onto. It’s nothing new, that collection of scents that swaddle the two of them so thickly that they’re practically ingrained into their skin. But Yondu’s weirdly sensitized to it today. He scrunches his nose, pressing it into the crook under Kraglin’s ear where the highest of his tattoos sits, and inhaling long and deep.

“Uh,” says Kraglin, shifting uncomfortably. “Are you sniffing me?”

Yondu pulls back. Swallows. Quickly fills his mouth with skin to compensate. “No,” he mutters, rolling the flesh over his jagged teeth as Kraglin’s disbelieving snort devolves into a moan. “That’d be weird.”

“Good thing you’re the, the dictionary definition of ‘normal’ then sir, ain’t it?” But the reply’s interspersed by delicious little gasps, so Yondu figures he can let it slide. He nips to shut him up, scraping his teeth along the tendon hard enough to graze, while he fumbles with the jumpsuit’s long zipper.

Kraglin’s already hardening. He fills out Yondu’s palm as he draws him out, long and veined and left-listing, head a purpling knob. Yondu folds the jumpsuit over Kraglin’s scrawny chest, pushing up the undershirt so he can rub his nose in the wiry fuzz and keep his sinuses full of that weird underlying aroma, discernible from the tangle of other evocative Ravager-smells where it never has been before: something that belongs to Kraglin alone. He finds the inner pocket, unzips it with a rasp, and worms out the lube tube Kraglin keeps over his heart. Which, yeah, absolutely deserves a joke and a smirk, but Yondu can’t be bothered to think of one right now.

Not when he’s got Kraglin pinned, cock bucking into Yondu’s dry palm. His skin bunches along it, turgid flesh blood-swollen and hot as a furnace. Yondu drizzles lube to join the precum slicking from the tip to make the rub of his hand smoother, wetter.

And speaking of _wetter_ …

Yondu pulls a face against the latest hickey he’s worried over Kraglin’s bony collarbone. His thighs rub in his pants.

Cunt feels… heavy. Hungry. And when he pushes his leg between Kraglin’s, the fly digs between the folds, slick creaming inside the leather.

Okay. Yeah, when he’s horny, he’s horny _everywhere_. But he’s come here with the specific purpose of fucking Kraglin – once the aforementioned bed-tying has occurred, and he’s got him good and needy. And while his cock’s tenting between them, rubbing Kraglin’s hip as he grinds against him and twists each upwards pull of his hand to tweak his sensitive head, it’s his _other_ organ that’s demanding the majority of Yondu’s attention.

“Hey,” Kraglin says. Grabs his head, pulls him up to look at him. Yondu realizes he’s stopped sucking the bitemark and has instead been standing contemplatively with his lips against Kraglin’s neck. There’s a pinkish tint to Kraglin’s cheeks, and his chest is blotchy with flush as well as bruises; but despite all that, the idiot still looks concerned. “Captain, ya seem. Uh. Distracted. Are you… Well, are you alright?”

Yondu narrows his eyes at him. Then squeezes more lube over his fingers, shoves Kraglin’s jumpsuit further down his shoulders, effectively pinning his arms to his side, and slips them under his balls to tease the hard furl of his hole. Kraglin’s distracted. He bites his lips raw and cusses every item in his line of sight, from the ceiling panels to the dim-lit lamp on Yondu’s bedside cabinet.

Basking in the glee of a successful diversion, Yondu ignores the soaked clench of his cunt over nothing and forgets that he’s mad at Kraglin in favour of making him moan.

 

* * *

 

Next morning, he throws up again.

Kraglin takes one look at him – kneeling on the floor, staring aghast at the puddle he’s just spewed – groans, and drops a thin hand over his eyes. “You better not be contagious,” he grumbles. Rolls out of bed and helps Yondu shakily – no, he’s _not shaking_ , he’s just a little grossed out is all; who knew stomach contents even came in that color? – and grabs a tissue (a clean one, thankfully) to wipe his mouth. “I’ll clean up. You sit until you ain’t gonna make it redundant. And sir?” Yondu looks up. Kraglin’s smiling, exasperated and worried all at once. “Get yer ass to the doctor.”

Yondu doesn’t even complain about being issued orders by his second in command. He nods, and puts his head between his knees until the nausea goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, we've got a lot going on in this chapter! Just so you know, this is going to diverge from the start of the film, unlike one of my other major GOTG fics, 'How To Hug A Ravager', which attempts to explain it. So Peter won't be leaving... ;)**
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> **You may notice that this fic is gifted to ClassicalTorture. We've been plotting this baby on Tumblr, and just WOW. She is a mine of glorious ideas. Prepare to cry in future chapters! ;)**
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> **Please comment... x**
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> ****
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> ****


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **No porn in this chappie. Sorry to disappoint!**
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> **CN: discussion of abortion, etc.**

So, technically, “jizz in my cunt” ain’t his famous last words. They oughta be though, by Yondu’s reckoning, as they’ve as good as ensured his death – by embarrassment, if nothing else. Because _unplanned pregnancy_ ’s something that happens to folks with gnarly mixed biology in their adolescence. Not when they’re admiral of the biggest, baddest pirate crew in the known skies, loving father-figure to a kidnapped Terran, and in an on-again, off-again, half-acknowledged relationship with their second in command.

Definitely not when they’re pushing fifty.

Because Yondu thinks, that’s impossible, right? Sure, he only sought out the elders on one of the Xandarian reservations once. Not because he’d been _embarrassed_ ; oh no, Yondu’d dropped his pants in the middle of the goddam hut and demanded the semi-circle of old women with withered fins (whose reactions varied between shock, smirks, and world-weary eye rolls) tell him why the fuck he suddenly had a coochie. It was just that after that… Well. There was nothing more he needed to know. And the Cataclysm happened, of course, which kinda put a crimp in any plans to swoop by for a flying visit.

Usually, Centaurian women own the cunt into which the cock was inserted. Yada yada, birds and bees and so on. They birth the brat that’s shoved into the man’s pouch, who incubates it until it hatches and grows big enough to suck milk out the momma’s tits. Basic, right? Peter, in his ongoing quest to liken everything in the universe to his limited eight years of Terran experience, has described him as a kangaroo-penguin-seahorse, and left it at that.

Only, once a Centaurian leaves the roost and decides to make their own way in the big bad galaxy (or gets banished for drunkenly pissing on a sacred relic and picking one too many rowdy fights; same difference), they cut their tie with the mystic circle that keeps the rest empathically entwined. Stay out there long enough, and their body assumes the entire species must be on the cusp of extinction ( _alright_ , so no such assumption is necessary; not anymore). Then it boots into full reproductive overdrive.

Hence. Cunt.

All in all, Yondu ain't too fussed. Sure, most planets boast some sorta binary gender system, but inwards/outwards facing genitalia doesn’t automatically correspond to it, and even if it did, the ratio of matriarchal, patriarchal, and neutral power balances aren’t tilted in any particular direction. He doesn’t go shouting about what he’s packing, simply because it rarely comes up in conversation. And when it does become relevant – like when you’re getting strip-searched before a high-stakes meet – anyone fool enough to crack jokes soon discovers that having an extra hole below doesn’t impede Yondu’s whistling ability one bit.

So yeah, if he bends over in the shower racks they’ll all get an eyeful. But since nobody sane would give a shit, the prospect of revelation doesn’t weigh on his mind. Having a pussy means very little, in the greater scheme of space piracy. However, being _pregnant_ is another matter entirely.

“This ain’t supposed to happen,” he says hoarsely, goggling at the duple bundle of cells Doc Mijo’s blown up on the big screen, so she can point at them with her cane and inform him that he’s looking at two whole new lives. “This… this can’t be…”

Captaincy demands the utmost in respect, everywhere except the medbay. Mijo jams her canetip between two scrubbed white tiles, and leans on it as she treats him to an arch look. “Have you had penis-and-vagina sex recently? The vagina being yours?”

Yondu bristles. “Ain’t none of yer business –“

“You’re pregnant. I’m the only sod on board with an intergalactic practitioner’s doctorate. It’s my business.”

There isn’t any counter to that. Claiming he’d wandered into a cloud of sex pollen and had been unable to control himself would be about as believable as saying he’d been visited by Anthos' holy fucking ghost. Yondu deflates, crossing to sit on the bunk he’d been squirming through a scan on not five minutes earlier.

“Okay,” he admits, folding his arms. “So I got fucked. But only a lil’ bit!“

Mijo’s single eye goes all crinkly around the edges. That’d better not be amusement. If that’s amusement, Yondu’s gonna have to kill her. “You got fucked enough, apparently,” she says.

Yondu scowls. “Aw, shuddup. Look, I – I thought I was too old for this.”

“Why?”

“Whaddya mean, why? Have ya seen me recently? I ain’t exactly a spring chicken.”

“…What’s a spring chicken?”

“Terran thing, forget it. Look. I ain’t never met a Centaurian soon-to-be-mommy who’d hit the big five-oh, let alone passed it!”

Mijo’s eye half-lids with something akin to pity. Oh heck no. That’s even worse than _humor_. “Have you ever met another Centaurian male with both penetrative and penetrated organs?”

“Yeah,” Yondu counters. “I fucked enough of ‘em in the ass, back in the glory days.” She’s the one who enquired into his bedroom exploits to start with; if that’s too much information, she can keep her nosiness to herself in future. Mijo however, doesn’t look so much grossed out as exasperated.

“You know what I meant, captain. I’m scheduled to see Horuz about his infected toe wart in less than five minutes, so unless you want him bursting in unannounced, I’d suggest that you answer the question _honestly_.”

Ooh. Threats. He knew he’d hired her for a reason. Yondu glowers until enough time’s elapsed that he can pretend to be responding of his own accord. Then hunches over, elbows propped on wide-spread knees, and shakes his head.

“Right,” says Mijo, glibly professional. “That means there’s no template to follow. So while Centaurian females may undergo menopause when they are living in a society surrounded by younger fertile women better equipped to carry young, that doesn’t necessitate that the same will apply to a lone Centaurian um, male, in space.”

This Centaurian, um, male isn’t too happy to hear that. “Fuck,” he says, scraping a hand over the line where implant joins sweating forehead. “ _Fuck_.” Then, in a whiplash of pragmatism – “Okay. So how do I get rid of ‘em?”

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t tell Kraglin.

That goes without saying.

He doesn’t tell Kraglin because his mate’d either laugh at him (without a doubt), sneer at him (less likely), or run off and shout to all his enemies that the Ravager captain was potentially going to be a teensy bit vulnerable for the next four months (impossible, but it never pays to be too cautious.) And because Yondu is the slightest bit concerned that Kraglin might want to _keep them._

Them.

The things.

Sproglet one and sproglet two.

Ain’t gonna live long enough to be worth naming, so Yondu doesn’t bother. Heck, he don’t even know if they’re boys or girls – would’ve asked Mijo, except he _doesn’t care_. You won’t find an ounce of maternal instinct in him, not if you crack open his bones to inspect the marrow. He is one hundred percent bona fide badass. And badasses don’t find their hands drifting to rest on their belly at inopportune moments, or the lines on the blueprint in front of them wavering, wobbling, and reforming into cavity-inducing family pictures, the details of which are too despicably adorable to relate.

Yondu drops his head on the table. “Fuck my life,” he says.

Kraglin looks up from where he’s lazily surfing channels on the Xandarian tellynet (hacked, of course; space pirates don’t pay for cable). He puts his selective hearing to good use. “What, right now?”

Yondu flips him the finger, rocking the implant’s crystal trapezium over the increasingly crumpled blueprint. (Who even uses carbon-copy maps anymore? If Yondu’s casing a place, he wants to do it _properly_ , with holograms and pointy sticks and the occasional cartoon to illustrate.) Why him? Why’s this gotta happen to _him?_ Doesn’t he have enough on his plate already, what with Quill contemplating desertion, half the crew looking for an excuse to gut Quill, and Horuz muttering about how they haven’t cracked a decent haul so far this moon-cycle?

Yondu’s liked among the crew (feared, if he’s being totally honest). But he doubts that’ll translate into lenience for paid pregnancy leave. Oh no – he’s gotta deal with this pronto.

Unfortunately, while Mijo keeps pills for whenever randy Ravagers put buns in their oven, they’re designed for consumption by biological carriers belonging to any of the three most populous species in the galaxy: Kree, Xandarian, Skrull, and any of their sibling races. This is a list on which Centaurian, um, males aren’t included. Which means Mijo’s gotta run a shit-load of tests to determine whether or not the pills will have any effect, and if not, it’s a long trip to Shi’ar space and a concocted lie to reassure the crew that ransacking medical facilities instead of hunting wealthy merchant ships is in their best interests.

Or he could do this the easy way, and quit wasting time.

Yondu sits straight, fishing the stolen bottle out of his sleeve. Pops the cap. Sees Kraglin watching expectantly, and shakes out a handful of slim white-and-red capsules. “Space flu,” he says, and smoothly claps his palm over his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

“What made you think that was a good idea?”

“Mm-mmm-mm-m!”

“Oh yeah? Well, it didn’t work. If you were planning on keeping this from him, you’re doing a bang-up job.”

“Keeping what from him?” asks Kraglin. Prone on the hospital pallet, Yondu writhes in sudden agitation and kicks him in the thigh.

“Mm-mm-mmm!”

“…Nothing,” Mijo declares, after an eloquent silence. An eloquent silence that translates to: _I’ve been ordered not to tell, and even if his throat’s too swollen to talk I’m willing to bet he can whistle._

Sighing, Kraglin scoots Yondu’s flailing boots out of the way, ignoring the unvoiced protest, and sits on the pallet besides him. Picks up his hand, which is burning hot to the touch and smattered with a vibrant purple rash, flakes of bloody blue skin clinging under the nails. Yondu, of course, does his best to yank away. But Mijo stops him with a tut, injecting another 50 milligrams of galactic antihistamine into the crook of his elbow. The cuffs help too: keeping his arms strapped to his sides so he can’t scrape away any more of the inflamed and irritated flesh.

“It’ll take half a day for the swelling to recede,” Mijo says, moving to stand with hands propped on hips. “The whole day for the rash.” Her single eye swivels between them, pinning each to the spot. Settles on Kraglin. “Try and keep him from running around the ship in that time. And from scratching his skin off.”

Kraglin salutes. “Will do, ma’am.”

Oh no he _doesn’t_. If Yondu’s out-of-commission for the cycle, that means Kraglin’s due to take his place and suffer the crew's slew of questions regarding where the captain is – if only because he’s the only one Yondu trusts to fob them off without giving too much away. It’s difficult to communicate that though, when your windpipe’s making a valiant effort to clamp and render the stiff plastic tube holding it open redundant. Yondu settles for pinching Kraglin until he stops _holding his goddam hand_ , and glares in the hopes that the message will percolate. It doesn’t. Something else does, though – the question Yondu’d been hoping his dramatic attempt to claw out of his own skin would’ve provided an adequate distraction from.

“So,” says Kraglin, as Mijo stalks away to do whatever doctors do when they’re not stopping their captains croaking from anaphylactic shock. “Those pills. What were they?”

Shit. The bottle’s in his coat pocket. His coat’s draped messily over the chair Kraglin’s got his feet propped on, from where he’d flung it when Mijo sprinted in armed with needle and plastic pipe. With his wrists as good as stuck to the bed, ain’t no way Yondu’s getting to it first. “Mm-mm, mn,” he huffs, shaking his head. “Mmn. Mn.”

Kraglin creaks the chair slowly onto its rear legs, boot soles griming the metal. “O- _kay_. So I guess interrogatin’ ya’s out for a while, huh sir?” He guesses right. Yondu nods, wincing as his chin rubs the scratched-raw skin on his chest. Points emphatically at the door. “Ya want me to go watch ship? S’that what you’re sayin’?” Another nod. More relaxed. Clever lad – he knew Kraglin would pick up on it, knew he'd be able to understand him…

“Nah,” says Kraglin, interlacing his fingers behind his head. He leans until he’s compressing Yondu’s legs, smirking at the ceiling. There’s about as much meat on him as there is on a well-fed toast rack, and his ribs dig into his shins. “M’stayin’ right here. Galleon ain’t gonna blow up just cause we ain’t watching it for a coupla hours.” But when he spots Yondu’s furrowing brows he relents. “I’ll stay until yer throat ain’t so puffy you can order me to bugger off aloud, at least. Please, cap’n. I wanna be sure you’re alright.”

Ugh. _Sentiment_.

Yondu rolls his eyes. But when Kraglin settles more comfortably against him, Yondu doesn’t kick him in the head like he’s yearning to. Just glumly scrubs his boot along his itching calf, snorts through the tube, and arranges himself so that he won’t have numb feet when Kraglin deigns to relocate his bony ass somewhere it’s actually wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I didn't put 'failed abortion' because I didn't want to spoil it... If you think that needs to be changed, tell me.**
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> **So, Yondu poisons Peter in my other big!fic, and winds up giving himself an allergic reaction in this one... Don't overdo drugs, kids. Prescribed or otherwise.**
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> **Feed me your comments!**
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> ****
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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I am very, VERY busy. The next update will come (if I get some comments! :D) ...But it may take a while. However, it'll be pretty big plot-wise, so if you're here for the story as well as the smut, you're going to be a very happy bunny.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **:Inhales deeply: I'm getting overtones of frotting and self-service, with a subtle, nutty aftertaste of public sex. A sumptuous Explicit Smut, wet and messy, Vintage 2016.**

The rash recedes, as promised.

Yondu’s airways open up of their own accord, also as promised.

Kraglin does not fuck off, as promised, although this could be because Yondu doesn’t actually tell him to go. He stays right where he is: lolling over Yondu’s legs and occasionally pinging Peter to make sure he hasn’t instigated a mutiny in their absence. And Yondu fiddles with his comm, and scratches the lingering hives on his forearms (until Kraglin smacks him away), kicks Kraglin in retaliation, and then – once his mate’s returned to perch on the pallet’s edge, shooting him wounded side-eyes – nudges him with his toe and tells him to “Talk, dammit; m’bored.”

Kraglin’s not really one for natter. But he does his best, sharing the latest gossip from the canteen. Yondu’s already on top of the juicy stuff, but a coupla snippets have escaped his attention. Before he knows it he’s hoarsely conjecturing on the subject of the Xandarian Broker’s eyebrows, which have changed style _again_ – specifically, on how long he must spend teasing them to the perfect angle of surprised outrage that’s shown in the vid-clip he’d demanded Kraglin produce for proof – and Kraglin’s wheezing to hide his laughter, because Mijo’s species forego down-cycles in favour of regular catnaps, and while she might balk at doing the same to Yondu, she can and will punch his first mate if he wakes her.

It is, Yondu thinks, very almost perfect.

Their leathers stick and squeak when they breathe. Kraglin’s bony elbows mince the meat of Yondu’s thigh. He rolls, arm slung across Yondu’s shins, and rests his chin on his knee, looking up his body and into his face. Yondu wriggles high enough on the pillow that he can squint at Kraglin without his cheekbones getting in the way, and quickly sits on his hand when it threatens to creep towards his belly.

He ain’t glad the sproglets made it. He _ain’t._ Although honestly, he doesn’t know what he’d expected. Course they’re gonna be tough lil’ buggers if they’re made from him and Kraglin ( _would be_ , hypothetically-like, if he were a family man and weren’t planning on having Mijo gouge them out the minute Kraglin lands a job offship).

“Whachu looking at?”

“Aw, nothin’.” Kraglin sighs, stretching. Yondu tells himself he’s not disappointed as their eye-contact breaks. “Just. This’s nice, y’know? Not often you an’ me get to talk without work gettin’ in the way.”

“I’ll stop breathin’ more often,” Yondu drawls. But when Kraglin rolls his eyes, checks the perimeter – redundant, they’ve got this curtain-walled cubby to themselves – and crawls over him to press their dry mouths together, muttering “you better not” against his tongue, Yondu’s nice enough to indulge him.

 

* * *

 

Once Mijo deems him unlikely to start asphyxiating without her surveillance, Yondu yanks on his coat and leads the way to the Bridge. Quill jogs to meet them, glaring – and the sight’s so familiar, has been since he first took the kid on, that Yondu’s torn between laughing and pulling him into a warm hug and – Wait.

He's considering  _hugging Quill._

Yondu’s boot freezes an inch above the floor. He checks himself until he’s certain his mind has settled on the former of those options – Kraglin watching from the corner of his eye, almost unobtrusive – then continues his forwards-march and greets Quill with a chuckle and a smack to the shoulder that’s hard enough to rock him.

“Whas crawled up your ass, boy?” he demands, shouldering him out the way so he can take his chair.

Quill rolls with the blow, not quite barging back but coming close. His cheek’s doing that funny ticking thing that means he’s pissed off. “Nothing. Just wondering where you were slacking off to, leaving me to finalize your dumb-ass plan. What were you doing that’s so important, anyway?” Assured that Quill’s the only one watching – or that if others are, they at least have the decency to eavesdrop private-like – Yondu settles comfortably on the seat and flicks his eyes at Kraglin. Quill goes the colour of off-milk. “Forget I asked.”

“Wise.” He smirks at Quill a while longer, letting his imagination fill in the blanks (to which the boy blanches further, green tints becoming more pronounced – although that could just be the dodgy Bridge lighting; does strange things to palefolk skin) and snaps his fingers for the holographic lay-out. They’ve had time to upgrade the materials while he was taking his sojourn to the medbay – and now that he thinks about it, he’s kinda amazed Kraglin managed to haul his sorry ass there without anyone noticing. Quill forks the projector over, and Yondu tosses it into the air so it can hover and spew light across their heads, gathering the attention of any not already sneaking glances at them over their engine displays. “Alright boys,” he booms. “What’s this idiot told ya?”

Czar informs him, with cheerful diligence, that Quill had imparted the plan as Yondu had sketched it to him over a tankard of something probably not intended for consumption at one of their restock ports. And that it had been embellished by several of Quill’s own opinions, most of which weren’t flattering and none of which were asked for.

“Traitor,” Quill says. But he doesn’t sound especially surprised, and avoids Yondu’s elbow when it attempts to embed itself under his ribcage. “C’mon, cap’n. What did you expect? You were sloshed when you came up with this. It shows.”

Excuse _him_. Yondu’ll have him know that he comes up with all his best plans drunk. One more reason to have the sproglets hoovered out – if it comes down to a choice between them and hard liquor, Yondu’ll raise a toast to their passing.

“Okay then,” he says, crossing his arms and scowling. “Les hear what you got.”

“Okay then,” repeats Quill huffily, and tells him.

…So it ain’t a _bad_ idea. Yondu strokes the prickles on his chin, contemplative, and wonders how he can spin this in his favor. He’d been thinking full-scale assault: attack ‘em head-on with that old favourite trick – cloud their sensors with an EMP-field, submerge beneath, come at ‘em from below. But, as Quill points out, half the galaxy’s wise to that tactic by now. Yondu’d been looking to capitalize on it – get them to send out their best fighters to counter while him and a small bag-and-tag team nipped in and got the goods. But Quill’s insisting it’d make more sense to do the sneaking _without_ the fireworks, and despite his best efforts, Yondu’s not entirely convinced he’s wrong.

They settle on a compromise. One big team goes in – in event of being spotted, which is likely if the Kree compound’s full, three quarters scarper off and make it look like they’ve been successfully ousted while the last small gang finishes the job, hijacks a lifeboat, and hightails back to base. It’s sneaky. It’s underhanded. It’s Ravager through and through, and Yondu has to kick himself to prevent an accidental “I’m proud of ya, boy,” slipping from his mouth.

Unfortunately, the movement stirs his… _other problem._

The one in his pants, which has been clenching greedily over nothing practically since this meeting began. The one being teased by the creases in his pants as he shifts his weight back and forth, zipper chewing between the plump folds…

“You got ants in your pants or something?” Quill asks. Yondu shows off the grime under his middle fingernail. He better not be blushing – or, if he is, the Bridge lights had better be dodgy enough to cover for it.

He’s not hard. There’s a little chub gathering, but not enough to bulge. Oh no – this arousal’s focussed in the under organ, hidden behind a slick-smeared wall of leather; a heavy throb that pulsates in time with the blood in his ears and the tiny, almost incidental grinds of his clit over the zip.

“Alright,” he orders, squeezing his fists in victory when his voice doesn’t shake. “We pull off this baby in a coupla weeks. For now, there’s plenty o’space to cover between here and there. Let’s go hunting!”

That is, as ever, met with enthusiastic roars of approval. Nothing Ravagers love more than a hunt. It’s the traditional space-pirate way. Yondu sinks slowly back, basking in their cheers, and shivers as his puss skates across the slimed gusset. Thank fuck his uniform’s watertight. Wouldn’t wanna get the chair dirty now, would he?

Kraglin syncs the readout on Czar’s nav-console to his pad. “We’re passin’ Cortauz systems soon,” he says, pacing in giddy circles. “They’re out th’way, but make a good business outta folks tryin’ to get to the Nova quadrant ASAP. Should be a coupla fat fuckers who think they can handle the scum that tries to prey in areas this isolated – they’re gonna have one helluva shock…”

“Not if they hear you nattering. Give it here.” Yondu waves a hand. Then shudders, as the forward rock of his ass pinches that sensitive little nubbin just hard enough to hurt. And – _oh_ , fuck, his boots have scooted out. Now his thighs are spread, practically of their own accord, questing after another splinter-second of that delicious, _perfect_ sensation; and _hell_ , he’s on his Bridge, in front of his crew, and his cunt’s so hot it feels like the seat of his pants is liable to catch fire; and…

And he’s holding the pad, which Kraglin has obediently deposited, at a stiff ninety degrees. Kraglin’s looking at him funny. Quill too.

Yondu hones his attention on the latter (and marginally more annoying) and glares fierce enough to have him scampering to check on the engine feeds as he drops his hand, pad along with it, to his lap. “See somethin’ funny?” he asks lowly, voice cusping on a growl.

Kraglin’s eyes linger – oddly, not on his, but to either of their sides. Then he shrugs and starts to pace again. “Nah.”

It’s only when he’s crossed in front of him for the second time that Yondu realizes Kraglin’s gait is no longer brisk with restlessness. Rather, every step he takes is more of a _lope,_ long and fluid, gangly limbs somehow drained of their innate gawkiness. Stalking. _Predatory_. His eyes keep lingering down Yondu’s body – the hands holding the pad as they threaten to twitch, the half-hard cock that’s sandwiched by the tight leather. Kraglin's walk slows further, dawdling to a halt so he can loop his forearms over the chairback like he and Quill always do when they’re looking to pester Yondu, and murmurs against his temple –

“Yer ears’re so navy I almost couldn’t tell ‘em from the shadows. Face ain’t much better. So, d’you wanna do the walk back to yer cabin so I can fuck you proper, or for me to make like I’m talkin’ to ya while you get yerself off right here?”

Oh _hell_. Yondu’s legs squeeze helplessly in a last ditch attempt to ward him away from doing something stupid. Not to mention potentially reputation-destroying, if not career-ending – but he ain’t never been one for impulse control.

Yondu balances the pad on the chairarm. Dials the settings on the window low enough that there’s no reflection – can’t have the rookies on comms getting an eyeful – and forces himself to breathe in controlled counts, all without looking at Kraglin. Then he shuffles forwards, slouching against the chair back so he can reach where he’s most yearning, and begins to trace the shape of his cunt through the leather.

Fuck. Damn Sproglets are better than those aphrodisiac spores he’d gotten dosed with that one time on Hrax...

Yondu’s thighs tremble, and he has to squeeze the chairarm to stop his boots skidding on the floor grates and depositing him ass-first – which, dumb or not, his Bridge crew will notice. His mound is soft and malleable, denting at the hungry press of his fingertips. Ain’t as big as a Centaurian woman’s, crammed as it is under his balls; but his species’ cocks sit a bit higher and assholes a bit lower than most (he’s fucked his way around enough of the galaxy to vouch) so there’s space for a smooth small swell.

Kraglin had once dared to call it ‘cute’. Kraglin had also been kicked in the jaw.

The pants are pulled flush to his groin, labia lips outlined against the supple material as if they’ve been vacuum-packed. Yondu rubs gently, parts them around the pad of his finger; he eases just the tip inside, leather bunching and crinkling to compensate. “Ain’t you… Ain’t you s’posed to be talkin’?” he asks, head lolling on one shoulder so he can glower right in Kraglin’s smug face. It’s infinitely satisfying to clock that his expression’s not smug at all – or if so, then at least the smugness is hidden under that blotchy red.

Huh. If his pants are mighty tight, Kraglin’s have gotta be _straining_. Looks like Yondu’ll be doing the talking.

“Bet’chu thought I’d take that first option,” he muses. Hikes one leg up over the chair arm – he’s sat on this baby at every angle imaginable; metal gets mighty uncomfortable after a coupla hours so no one’ll think it strange. Then he cups his cock with one hand, steering the gathering firmness to one side to give Kraglin the best view as he frames that dark and tempting space between his legs. Blue fingers stretch merlot fabric. They reveal where the seam at his crotch is darkened, a shiny patch of moisture seeping around the zip – Yondu’s sure to rub it, and has to bite his lip to force air through his nose rather than over his vocal cords.

“Lookit,” he whispers. Hooks his calf more firmly over the arm, opening himself until his hip socket protests. “M’so wet for ya. Musta creamed the inside of these things; gonna make you lick ‘em clean when we’re through. Me too. You’re gonna tongue me out so sweet and slow I ain’t gonna be able to tell where you stop and I start…”

He smirks when he hears Kraglin disguise his choke with a cough. Continues, undertone dipping a little huskier, a little rawer, as his fingers continue their exploration. “You’re gonna kiss my cunt, my ass, my cock… Might even let you fuck that wicked tongue o’yours into my mouth, if ya make it good. Lemme taste my own slick. You’ll be ruttin’ yer dick on mine, nothin’ but skin and slick between us, beggin’ to be let inside… You will beg me, won’t ya Krags? You’ll beg me good?”

“Yes _sir_ ,” Kraglin breathes. Yondu glances at his hands. They’re folded limp and white across the chair’s high rear, but he spies the stifled shake. Lad’s probably cramping with the effort not to grind himself off. Because of course, while the subtle dig of Yondu’s fingertips is hidden from the Bridge Crew, distracted as they are relaying course and co-ordinating engines and artillery they won’t miss their first mate humping the rough-hewn metal of Yondu’s throne.

Nope – Kraglin’s trapped. In full view. On display. He’s vulnerable – and the only one who gets to witness Yondu’s own vulnerability is him, which’s a heavy enough burden to bear when you’re not sporting a boner that could be mistaken for a crane arm.

But that ain’t Yondu’s problem.

He pillows cheek on shoulder, breath clouding the leather, and dedicates himself to giving Kraglin as much of a show as he can without performing a strip. It’s… well, it’s different. Yondu hasn’t tried masturbating through clothes before – grinding on someone’s different, and since he started fucking his first mate he hasn’t had much of a call to jerk off. Bonus of a workplace relationship – your fuckbuddy’s in reach of yourself and a storage closet almost 24/7. But while the sensations are unusual (at once limited by what he can and can’t reach, and infinitely exacerbated by the rest of the crew being not ten metres away) they sure ain’t bad.

The leather’s dry on the outside but sopping on the in. Yondu’s juices squelch as he massages them over his ever-slipperier channel and clit, pants squishing under the steady press of fingers and the scratch of ragged blue nails. And when his other hand sneaks across his stomach, cradling approximately over where two lil bundles of cells are multiplying behind inches of flesh, muscle and womb, he catches it before it can settle. Instead he feels for the line of his pouch. It’s scarcely discernible – Yondu has to push up the edge of his jacket and shirt to reach it, baring a sliver of bright blue side. He twists to suck Kraglin’s bony digits into his mouth as he teases both slits, above and below, and is sure to ignore the wayward thought that creeps into his mind as Kraglin grits his teeth and stoically bears it.

_Y’know, he might make a half-decent dad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feed me comments for more fic!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **I'm sorry it's been so long! I am so disgustingly overworked. By the time I've finished my studies for the day, I'm usually too worn out to scroll through tumblr, let alone write fic. So I hope this chapter isn't too patchwork, as it's been scribbled in ten minute intervals whenever I can't stave off the urge to procrastinate-through-creativity any longer. Enjoy!**

The next few weeks pass in near-tedium. Coupla schooners held up at cannonpoint. Coupla wannabe-heroes from a Nova outpost dumped in the Brig to be ransomed back to their superiors at extortionate rates. Coupla rookies ‘accidentally’ ejected from an airlock after annoying Horuz. Nothing out of the ordinary, and scarcely the revenue to cover running costs. All in all, a nice slow run-up before their next big gig – the Kree armory is closing every hour, in orbit around the vast dull plasma-ball of a red giant, and it’s best that they keep the crew tethered and antsy so they can unleash full hell when the time comes.

Things settle to routine on the pregnancy front too. Yondu wakes, boots Kraglin out, toes the wastebin from around the corner of the bed and sits drumming his fingers on the cool metal, still damp from its last scrubbing, until he’s certain he’s not going to suffer a Shorro Special for a second time.

Surprisingly, they actually taste better on the way up. Perhaps he should add stomach acid to the galley’s shopping list.

When he’s either filled the bucket or dry-retched boredly for a few minutes, he stumbles upright, refuses to check his stomach for any hint of an outwards curve (which there is, but that’s totally just muscle, shut up), pulls on his coat and stomps out to face the day. And wonders how long it’ll be before Mijo gives him the green light that means she’s gathered tools for the operation procedure.

Last medicentre they ransacked, Mijo claiming she needed restocking (and shutting up her protesting assistant with a neat insertion of elbow into nerve cluster) hadn’t turned up anything that could be ground into a suitable compound. Anyway, by now it’s too late to be at optimum effectiveness. Surgery’s the only way to go.

Surgery.

Mijo ramming a tube up his hoo-ha and slurping the lil’ buggers out, like Beasties up a straw.

Yeah. Yondu _can’t wait_.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear; contemplate the abortion procedure and you’ll have the decision made for you. Yondu gets the buzz as he’s sauntering messwards to figure out which of Shorro’s concoctions will make his gullet spasm today. “Yeah?” he barks, hitting the transmit/receive button on his wristpiece. Mijo’s smart enough to send the appointment deets via text rather than vocals. Yondu swallows until his throat stops feeling all grainy – a result from all that fun dry-heaving, he’s sure – and affirms with a grunt and a nod. “After lunch,” he says. “Sure. See ya there.”

Once at the canteen, he slumps besides Kraglin, close enough that their knees knock.

“Ain’t no Beasties left,” he complains, waving grumpily at the cleared-out racks. Rotten cherry on a shitty morning. But before his bad mood can calcify, Kraglin swallows his mouthful and tilts the orange-stained can in his direction, fork rattling on the inside of the tin.

Well, if he’s offering…

Yondu helps himself. He does not think about the way his crest flickers with primitive glee at the proximity of mate and embryos alike. Yeah, the twins are apparently old enough to hijack his extra-sensory net (botched and butchered as it is). Yeah, they recognize their daddy. _Yeah,_ Yondu knows fuck-all about Centaurian gestation cycles, let alone what stage of development the lil’ ones are at. But he’s committed now – all booked up in Mijo’s diary and all. Even if he were having a hormone-fueled instant of doubt, Mijo’s got a schedule to keep. Plus, if he spilled to Kraglin now the guy would only be pissed that he’d kept it from him so long, then try and convince him to _keep_ the blighters.

He’s not considering it. He’s not.

Yeah, getting horny at random moments was fun at first. But there’s only so many rooms he and Kraglin can mess before the scrubbers start to suspect. And a quick flick through an online mother’s manual – not that he’d ever _wondered_ about the _possibility_ ; oh no, this was all hypothetical – had informed him that it’s only likely to get worse once the baby bump shows, when everything starts swelling and the hormones kick into overdrive, and you start getting _pressure_ on all those fun places inside…

Yondu’s thighs are rubbing together. He hasn’t given them permission to do that.

No. Just… _no_. He can’t keep them. It’d be stupid, it’d be reckless, it’d be _sentimental_. It’d be painting a gargantuan target on his back. He’s gotta get rid of them _now_ , before he follows this treacherous thought process any further. He’ll commandeer the medbay and perform the goddam procedure himself if he has to – but whatever the cost, these parasites are getting _out_ before they fuck any more with his mind.

Yondu drops the fork, clatter jerking Kraglin’s head round. He scoots the can away. Orange juice slops, staining his fingers, and Yondu wipes it on his lapel rather than licking it off. Kraglin’s mouth’s doing that thing that means he’s scouring the last minute in his mind’s eye and wondering what he did wrong. Nothing – but it ain’t like Yondu’s gonna tell him that.

“You ain’t finished –“

“Not hungry.” Yondu swings his legs over the bench, stifling that weak primal jabber from his implant, the one that’s demanding he stay close to Kraglin and let him provide for him and the babies and all that shit. As fun as it’d be to have him waiting on him, Yondu doesn’t ever, will never, need _coddling_ ; Mr Breadwinner can keep his Beasties to himself. Hand resting over his pouch of its own accord, Yondu stalks exit-wards, and stops himself wondering whether the sproglets are developing teeny tiny crests through willpower alone.

He hopes they don’t. Because if there’s a bonus to having his empathic abilities crippled, it’s that he doesn’t have to listen to that nonsensical hunger for life that seeps out of his womb, or the hurt confusion emanating from his mate.

 

* * *

 

He gets the call at half past twelve, which means enough time has elapsed that he can’t pretend he’s been bogged down with work-slash-bawling-out-people-who’ve-annoyed-him. Yondu stares warily at the flickering icon on his watch. He’s stashed himself in a dark cubby on top deck, which hasn’t been trespassed in since before he made captain, going by the depth of the dust. Every breath stirs it, gleaming ribbons twisting in the light of his implant. Fine particles coat his airways with cement. As tempting as it is to sit here and asphyxiate in peace, he’d better _deal_ with this, if only because if he doesn’t Mijo’ll panic, assume he’s passed out, and send Kraglin to find him.

“Where are you?” Mijo asks, when he surrenders to the icon’s demanding flash. She sounds pissed off, a smidgeon of concern on the side. Yondu focusses on the former.

“Hello t’you too, girlie,” he drawls, after coughing up half a lungful of dust. “And I’m. Uh.” In a cupboard. Sitting on a stack of forgotten crates, banging his heels furiously against them to drown the shriek in his brain that’s insisting killing the sproglets would be a very, very bad idea. “Stock check,” he supplies lamely, after Mijo’s let the silence drag. Her exhale is… well, more of a snort, if he’s being honest.

“If you’re having second thoughts…”

Second thoughts? Pssh. Yondu doesn’t have _first_ thoughts most of the time. He just does shit. It’s got him through life so far. “Nah. I’ll be right there,” he promises, batting away Mijo’s unspoken reassurance with a wave of his hand. “Gimme a minute to reach ya.”

Ten minutes later, his comm beeps again.

Yondu, who has yet to budge an inch, seriously considers ejecting it from the airlock. Potentially still attached to his arm.

The fuck is wrong with him? Why can’t he just… close his mind, see this through? Ignore all the potentialities, that’re reeling through his mind like stills on a slideshow... Him, Kraglin, sproglets. Regular happy lil’ family.

Yondu coughs again, miniature tornadoes eddying through the dust. Heck _no_. He’s already got Quill – one brat’s plenty of hassle. Although… Quill’s not exactly a brat anymore. Boy’ll be striking out on his own, soon enough. And… And…

…He is not empty-nesting, dammit. Even if he were, he’d get a fucking dog to baby before he considered raising any more kids. And all this dithering ain’t getting him nowhere. Yondu takes a deep breath – chokes momentarily on sour particulates, but hacks the majority out before they have time to settle. Then he rubs grimy spit off his jaw and answers the comm.

“So this is a long minute,” says Mijo.

“Shaddup,” says Yondu.

They sit in silence, Yondu’s forethinking not having extended this far into the conversation. Then Mijo snaps her fingers. The sound snaps sharply through the _Eclector_ ’s crackly old internal radio, like a gunshot heard through several reams of cellophane. “I could just give you a scan, y’know? Let you see them. Then you decide, full stop. You’ll already be in the medbay, so you won’t be able to run away… Not that that’s, uh, what you’re –“

“I geddit.” Yondu hunkers over his knees, glowering at his boots, and rests his sweating forehead on his equally humid palm. The dust on his face is swiftly turning to mud. “But what if I… what if…”

“What if you want to keep them,” Mijo fills in softly.

No use lying. Yondu nods, swallowing hard. This is where Mijo smacks him with the cold hard truth – that a pregnant Ravager captain’ll be dead before the end of the month, the embryos with him. Kraglin too, if he’s revealed as the dad. Fostering resentment of all things _sentimental_ in his men has worked wonders as far as keeping them ruthless goes, but Yondu’d never honestly considered that he might wanna start a fucking _family_.

“You could fake your own death?” Mijo says. That startles a laugh – more a wet snort by this point. “Okay. Maybe not. I reckon your best bet would be to search out members of the crew you trust – get yourself a sturdy support base. Tell ‘em _before_ you start to show, too. Show ‘em you’ve got faith they’ll stand by you –“

“And what?” Yondu interrupts. “Get stabbed in the back?”

“Have I betrayed you yet?”

That’s a point he has to concede. Yondu shrugs, the hand on his forehead slipping down to dig frustrated fingers into his tight-squeezed, grit-coated eyes. “What then,” he croaks. “How the heck am I s’posed to bring up a pair of kids on this ship, with this crew…?”

“You’ve done it once before,” Mijo reminds him. Her voice dips when she sees Yondu’s grimace – because _yeah_ , but that’d been Quill, and they’d had no choice but to pick him up in the first place. Just ‘cause the contact had vanished and Yondu’d decided to _keep him_ rather than sell him to the slave markets didn’t mean they’d spoilt the kid. “Look. If you have folks you trust, they’ll stand by you. Might even pitch in to lend a hand.” And there’s that word again. _Trust_. “Not to mention – if you’re worried, there’s always adoption on Xandar…” Mijo trails off at the offended snarl. “Uh. I'm just telling ya your options, sir. Like you asked.”

He can’t fault that. Still, if Mijo wants to act the agony aunt, there’s one more thing he can ask her… “And Kraglin?” he says hoarsely. “What d’you think he’ll make of… All this?” A poke at his belly summarizes what _all this_ refers to. While he and his mate ain’t exactly the lovey-dovey PDA-sort, Mijo’s smart enough to have sussed the daddy’s identity the moment Yondu started swearing at the scanner a month ago, and she’s certainly smart enough to know when it’s best to keep her mouth shut.

“Don’t wanna conjecture on that, sir. You better tell him yourself, and work it out from there.”

Fat lot of help she is. Yondu makes the decision (as if he hadn’t determined on this course of action weeks ago) and pushes to his feet. The crate creaks, powder poufing around him in a grotty halo, and he kicks it a coupla times to get the grey shivering off his boots and coat. “Awright,” he growls. “Let’s get on with that scan, yeah? I ain’t getting any younger here.”

Or any less pregnant. But while he grouches and gripes at Mijo the whole way down to the medbay (she refuses to turn off the comm in case he bolts again, but is wise enough not to put her motivation into words), for the first time since this whole mess began Yondu allows himself to acknowledge excitement at the prospect.

 

* * *

 

It’s an inevitable fact of life that when you’ve been dodging a duty, once you buckle down and _do it_ you spend the next hour berating yourself for ever avoiding it in the first place.

There’s nothing _scary_ about walking into Mijo’s medbay. Nothing dark or foreboding at all. It looks as it always does: equipment that’s bulky but reliable, a few decades older than the fallback-machines in the crummiest Nova facility, but upgraded whenever Mijo’s budget has the spare tire to permit trawling through the dense tech-factories and implant-labs hewn into the bone of Knowhere’s hollow jaw. The medbay sits at ship center. There’s little chance of it being affected by hull-breaches from any direction, and its walls are smooth and curving, broad at the base but swooping steeply inwards the higher up you go, as if the entire room is the bottom half of an hourglass. The weird shape’s actually functional, believe it or not – there’s so many different species on board that Mijo needs a metric quadraton of data, compiled onto a drive that hooks up to her main holoconsole. The hot air that escapes that mechanical monster gets funnelled up through the hourglass’s stem, providing a thermal boost throughout the upper core of the ship – the area furthest from solar panels and matter converting heat-generators alike.

Steal everything, waste nothing. That’s Ravager Code.

Well, not _really_. Ravager Code is a nebulous and abstract thing, the minutiae of which alter every time Yondu gets drunk. It is continuously expounded, extrapolated and expanded upon, to the extent that whenever a ranking Ravager spouts a phrase with the requisite air of gravitas and proclaims it _Code,_ no one argues.

And perhaps Yondu’s thinking about all this to avoid acknowledging his gut reaction to the two curled little bundles of joy showing on the screen.

 _Mine_.

Because now none of his umming and aahing matters. Once Yondu’s decided something’s _his_ , he’ll fight for it like it’s the last Beasties tin in the galaxy.

That’s when he notices Mijo’s frown. That’s not a reassuring look on the face of any doctor, but it’s far worse when it’s directed at your unborn spawn. A thousand horrendous possibilities swarm Yondu at once, but he pushes them down long enough to growl: “What?”

Mijo effortlessly parses the anger in his voice to access the underlying worry. “Here,” she says, brisk and professional, stepping over to the holochart and circling the strange white gleams on the scan that Yondu’d assumed were feedback. He swallows.

“What is it?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know.” They both examine the unknown substance that, judging by the previous scan Mijo pulls up to compare, has been growing in his uterus at a rate more rapid than that of the sproglets. Yeah, because that’s not a bad sign. At all.

Yondu stares down at his bare blue belly, the pouch slit hidden in the creases as he crunches up onto his elbows, and for the first time since he heard the intergalactic broadcast, wishes that the Centaurian race wasn’t all but extinct.

Those old shaman birds he’d gone to when the cunt first arrived would know what was happening to him. Sure, they’d laugh. Probably tut disapprovingly and tell him that he ought to have settled for a Centaurian lass, given her his betrothal earrings and found a nice leafy tree to claim for them and their six-point-four kids. But while his kind had been fairly regular space goers before the cataclysm, Yondu’s never met another Zatoan who’d made their home in the aether – and nowadays, most of the lucky buggers who’d been offworld when the badoon came have been gathered up by the Nova Protection Squad and shunted onto reservations regardless of their tribes. Not really a surprise that their great preservation plan backfired, and almost half the surviving Centaurians butchered one another.

Then, in the back of his mind, a memory stirs. Of simpler days, before a certain experiment with fermented fruit, a punch up, and a splash of fifty-percent-proof urine over a sacred relic. He recalls watching a man and a woman enter the birthing hut, the woman with a slight bulge over her gut. Then a woman and a man exiting, the bulge having been transferred to the man’s pouch. That transition had to be made _somehow…_

The pieces click together as Yondu collapses back on the medical pallet and groans into the crook of his elbow. Mijo’s by his side immediately, all five of her eyes wide with panic – “Cap’n? Cap’n, are you alright?”

“Fine,” mumbles Yondu. Doesn’t unwrap his arm from round his face. He’d rather leave it there for a while – anyway, it’s easier to say the words when he doesn’t have to witness Mijo’s reaction. “M’gonna lay an egg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, he's decided to keep them! I had to edit a few phases in earlier chapters, so the whole 'egg' thing comes as something as a surprise. Sorry to anyone who'd read them previously!**
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> **Thank you all for being so patient with me and my sudden drop in productivity. While it may be another long wait for the next chapter, I appreciate every comment... :hints: x**
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> ****


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry it's so late! I am a busy lil' bee.**

The right time is coming. Yondu knows it. It’s just… not now.

Kraglin’s frowning in that way that means he’s about to start asking questions, primarily about why Yondu’s not hard after he’s gone to the trouble of nibbling his pierced ears in that way he likes and rolling each of his nipples around his mouth like they’re cherries whose stems he’s trying to tie. Admittedly his efforts might have had more to do with Yondu’s responsiveness: the cracking, spitty gasp and the sudden clutch of Kraglin’s shoulders as he rubbed his sensitive pectorals on Kraglin’s stubbled chin. But the pinch of teeth around his navy areola had reminded Yondu of why he’d called Kraglin here in the first place.

To talk about the things that are slowly hardening inside of him, thin shells just tangible if he digs his thumbs into his stomach. Not to… Well, this.

A minute spent reminiscing about that time he was still new to Ravager reds, when he’d lost a game of spin-the-bottle and spent fifteen hurried minutes in a closet with an A’askavarian, leaves Yondu in a suitable state of flaccidity. There. Now he can concentrate on the necessary conversation. But when the words refuse to emerge they leave him with the problem of a cock that’s waning rather than waxing. And a first mate who, by the disappointed expression, has been looking forwards to giving him a blowjob.

“Somethin’ I said, sir?” Kraglin asks. His knuckles knead Yondu’s hipbones, husky voice stirring gooseflesh on his abdomen. Yondu tenses, not sure if he’s shuddering towards that mouth or away. Noticing, Kraglin presses an open-mouthed kiss to his belly, and…

_Oh._

There’s that buzz again. The babies recognize their daddy. They make it known by accessing the slashed and mutilated remnants of crest that’re hidden under the implant and insisting his brain gorge itself on endorphins.

 _Mine_ , Yondu thinks again. And then, before he can stop himself – _Ours_. Only they won’t be ‘ours’, not really, not if Kraglin doesn’t know… But damn if his legs don’t fall further apart, welcoming Kraglin between them.

They’re on the edge of his bed, Yondu seated on the mattress and Kraglin knelt on the grilling. The cabin door barricades them from the rest of the galaxy. Yondu’s pants are tugged past his knees, hanging off the shin guards of his boots. Kraglin squeezes up and under, trapping himself as close to Yondu’s groin as he can get – so you see, it’s not _Yondu’s_ fault, that what throbs out of his throat as Kraglin shifts his half-soft cock out the way and dips his tongue into his cunt isn’t so much a confession as a ragged moan.

“Aw, _fuck_ ,” he manages with a little more coherence. That rapidly devolves as Kraglin grinds him open with his chin and treats Yondu’s clit to a filthy kiss. “Aw fuck, _fuck_ …”

“In a bit,” grunts Kraglin. He pulls back so Yondu can see his wicked little smirk, shiny with milky-silver slick. Then pushes one finger in an unsatisfying centimetre, to stroke and scratch the textured walls without offering any relief.

Teasing little shit. He’ll punish him later. But for now that digit’s stirring in rhythmic circles, coaxing more wetness forth. It’s… perfect. Unspeakably so. Yondu’s thighs bounce on Kraglin’s shoulders, boot heels digging into his scrawny back. He urges him to where he wants him with the wring of his puss around that infuriating fingertip, an unspoken plea that doesn’t need to be vocalized. Not that it ever would be. Yondu doesn’t _beg_. Not even for Kraglin to eat him out proper-like, to quit faffing about because his heart’s revving like a gunned M-ship, ready to pound out of his chest…

“Get a move on,” he croaks, keeping his voice steady through a combination of willpower and clutching the bedsheets like he’s trying to wring them dry. “Thas’ an order.”

Kraglin’s smile is perhaps a little too knowing. “Yes sir,” he replies.

And after that… Well, neither of them have much time for talking.

Kraglin mouths the tendon joining Yondu’s thigh to his crotch. He worries it without once breaking the skin, but Yondu’s always been embarrassingly sensitive there and in the borderline silence of his cabin, the squelch as he seats himself fully on Kraglin’s finger is practically obscene. Yondu doesn’t have time to remedy his embarrassment by smacking Kraglin’s head. Mostly because Kraglin takes that as a cue to remove his digit and roll his tongue against him once more, questing out the parameters of the fluttering cunt.

It tickles over his outer lips, flicking lizard-light across the smooth azure skin (rainforest adaptation; that’s why he’s always so fascinated with Kraglin’s fuzzy trunk and balls. And because it’s fun to pluck the occasional hair and make him jump, of course.) A moan eggs Kraglin on; he advances to lap Yondu’s innermost folds, parting them around a firm tonguepoint but retreating before Yondu can clench. He flattens it, a hot moist lathe that drags over Yondu’s slit and tugs plaintively on the flexible flesh. Dabbles lightly around his clit. Then props a finger to either side of the cunt, prising apart the soft blue internals, and delves hungrily inside.

His tongue’s molten metal, moulding to Yondu’s tenderest places and insinuating itself inside him where he’s powerless to resist. Yondu can only drop his head back on his bare shoulder, breath rasping.

Below, Kraglin fucks him softly on his tonguetip, rhythmic and quiet. He’s engulfed in his scent, his taste, the texture of his slick-smeared channel and the way his captain’s hips tilt desperately into the sensation. The hand that’d prised open Yondu’s labia not a minute before steals to release his own cock, and Kraglin trails his sticky finger around the purpling head. When he moans, he makes sure to do it into Yondu, letting him feel the vibration.

And feel it he does.

If Yondu could muster thoughts right now, they’d probably be along the lines of gratitude, because if Kraglin’s Frenching his puss like he’s expecting a score report, he can’t ask questions. Even if he could, Yondu has an excuse for not answering. No such justification occurs though, mostly because Yondu’s head’s full of mush. When Kraglin noses his clit, then moves up to lick it directly, manipulating Yondu’s balls between finger and thumb, it’s simply too much to bear; Yondu, who’d been planning on holding out until he had Kraglin inside him or vice versa, doesn’t have chance to warn him before he spasms and cums.

Kraglin rears back. He can’t get too far, incarcerated by the triangular prison of Yondu’s thighs and stretched pants, but the sudden coolness over his blood-heavy cunt jerks Yondu from his sated haze nevertheless. He blinks, catching Kraglin silhouetted above him. His twitching face is liberally smeared. “Uh –“

“Ya got juice in my eye,” Kraglin gripes. He sounds more peeved than anything. Which shouldn’t be _funny_ , but absolutely is.

Yondu, sniggering and flat-out, almost doesn’t notice Kraglin rearranging, rising between his legs and tucking one knee to rest on the mattress under Yondu’s thigh. He does notice the damp press of a cockhead against his opening though. He notices when it eases in, channel lax and pliant from the orgasm, and he definitely notices when that same head nudges his cervix, Kraglin splitting him to the root with breathtaking ease.

“There,” grunts his mate, still sounding sulky. He rubs ruefully at his reddening eye, fluid beading on his eyelashes. “Now I just have t’worry about you spitting at me if I don’t do a good enough job.”

He knows him well. And, if Kraglin’s pissed he got him messy, Yondu can always assist with the clean-up. Wiping a thumb over Kraglin’s sticky-rough stubble, Yondu grins and surges up to share in the salty secretions clinging to his first mate’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

He’s been looking for it so long that he doesn’t notice when it starts to show.

Peter does, when Yondu’s yawning his way out of the loo cubicles that adjoin the shower racks. It’s midway through his breakfast hour, which means firstly that Kraglin’s already been booted out of his room, scrubbed the grainy remnants of cunt-slime outta his stubble that Yondu hadn’t licked up last night, and is on his way to breakfast mess; and secondly that the whole garrison’s not there to gawp when Yondu washes his extra hole. There’s only a few laggers, and they’re of the bleary-eyed late-riser sort. Unfortunately, Quill’s among them. Also unfortunately, his eyes aren’t so bleary that they don’t notice the new curve to his gut.

“Getting chubby in our old age are we?” he cracks as Yondu passes him. And pokes him in the belly. That makes him frown – because the slight stretched paunch isn’t as soft as he expects. “Or p’raps you’ve just got parasites.”

Yondu’s mouth works helplessly a moment. Then he remembers who he’s talking to, and returns the poke with a balled fist. Quill bows around it, wheezing “a-hole,” and Yondu delivers another smack to the back of his drenched curly head, whistling a jaunty tune as he cranks on the spray. That has even the most catatonic of his fellow showerers jumping and skidding on the slippery tile. No radiation-glare follows it, but he still scares ‘em enough that by the time he gets round to washing between his legs, still sticky from where Kraglin had pulled out to cum – it’d been done more from force of habit than desire, and he hadn’t made much of an effort to stop it squirting over Yondu’s loose-fucked cunt, so if the last lot hadn’t taken he’d probably still be in this mess anyways – he doesn’t have much company. Quill’s about it, and he knows better than to comment.

Still rubbing his bruised stomach, Quill furrows his droplet-studded eyebrows and leans his big pink body on the wall without an ounce of shame. There’s no cause for it – Ravagers are well used to stripping down together after dirty missions and once every third or fourth morning for a shower when the BO gets too bad to ignore; Quill, weaned into their way of life from nine, has never not been comfortable in his skin.

Nevertheless, the shower racks aren’t the favoured location for going over specs. So when Quill asks – “Can I lead the mission tomorrow?” Yondu blinks at him incredulously from under his soaped armpit and thanks the Gods that Quill hadn’t seen fit to pop the question over the urinals.

“Yer asking _now?_ ”

“I know it’s short notice, but I’m ready for it. All I’ve led are low-stakes missions so far; I wanna try my hand at a bigger operation.”

Yondu considers him, not without suspicion. “You ain’t considering taking over, are you, boy? You might think yer tough, but I’d like t’see ya face down the business-end of my arrow –“

“I do that whenever I piss you off anyway." Then, before Yondu can prove him right – “Fuck no. You think I’m interested in your job? You gotta do _paperwork_ and shit.” Not much. And not often. Usually he gets a rookie to sign shit for him, but there are certain things – job specifications and payment details on the big gigs – that he doesn’t trust anyone with but himself. Not that Quill needs to know that. “Anyway –“ A telltale smirk spreads over his face, one which Yondu yearns to punch into oblivion. “I gotta tell you, captain. Kraglin’s not my type.”

Yondu rolls his eyes and tips his chin up to part the spray, gargling rust-tasting water and spitting it at Quill’s feet. “Har-har. And the answer’s no.” Then, before Quill can argue – “Ya can’t lead the mission. But you can be my second on this one, I guess.” Kraglin can suck it up. He won’t mind. One of the Bridge crew’s gotta stay onboard the _Eclector_ anyways, keep some order up there, and Yondu would rather it was someone he trusts. He had been considering Horuz, but thinking about it…

Yondu meditatively scrubs the suds from his chest and back, fingertips lingering a little too long over the lip of his pouch. The tingling internal nipples prickle towards the fleeting warmth of his palms, and he can trace the dual-shape of the eggs. Yeah. Perhaps Kraglin staying shipside is for the best. Not because he wants him _outta harm’s way_ or anything stupid and sentimental like that, but because the lad’s sharp when it comes to correlating images, and if Yondu clubs a guard, hacks his data-piece and sends Kraglin everything it contains, they got themselves an Operator. So long as Kraglin remembers when he’s broadcasting to all the earpieces rather than to Yondu’s solo. Wouldn’t want a repeat of _that_ incident…

Quill nods along, after consideration reveals this outcome is the best he’ll be getting. “Alright,” he says, determined as ever to hog the last word, and turns for the exit. Yondu can’t help but bounce an “Okay then!” off his retreating back.

 

* * *

 

 

Kraglin doesn’t complain. Much.

He does however spend an inordinate amount of time glaring at Quill on the Bridge. And when Yondu’s organizing the small bag team who are due a date with the insides of the Kree fortress, he pings a message to his watch. _Saw Doc at morning mess. Says u got something to tell me._

Goddam meddling Mijo. By the time Yondu’s processed the scrolling Xandarian sigils, Kraglin’s seen that he’s seen it, so there’s no chance of pretending he accidentally shunted it to the spam folder (corporation bots didn’t discriminate between Empire and space-pirate network systems, and Yondu’s techies have yet to work out how to prevent them from being bombarded with advertisements whenever they come within broadcast range of a settlement.) He taps out _It can wait_ and returns to juggling the pros and cons of putting Horuz, who is admittedly one of their best combatants, in close quarters with Quill for the ride over.

He’d planned on telling Kraglin before he went. That way, good or bad, he’s got a decent distraction from the fallout. But if Mijo’s pressuring him to do it, well, refuting her efforts becomes a matter of pride.

Which is why Peter is the first to find out, because Yondu’s body decides that halfway through a firefight would be a great time to go into labor.

His body has not consulted him on this. Well, he _was_ feeling a lil… _off_ as he led the march up the M-ship gangway, but he hadn’t put two and two together and reconciled ‘queasiness’ with ‘having a pair of eggs prise apart your pelvis’.

Which, ow. They’re fist-sized, each a little smaller than the head of your average newborn, but he doesn’t exactly have the biological design for passing anything larger than a morning shit and _fuck, this hurts._

“You’re a penguin-seahorse-kangaroo- _platypus?_ ” Quill wails.

“Shut up… Before I make ya…” The plan’d gone off without a hitch. For approximately five minutes. They’d sawn through the Kree hull, over a ventilation duct that whooshed fresh air down from the oxy-generators so the noisy screech of cutter through vacuum-resistant spacesteel didn’t garner undue attention. Sure, whole thing’ll depressurize once they uncouple, but hey, that won’t be their problem. Unless it takes Yondu more than quarter of an hour to get these lil’ fuckers _out_ , because by that time his bag-team can and will have wiped the floor with their opponents, and they’ll fuck off without him.

For all they know right now he’s either dead or captured. Not barricaded into the Kree-sized rec room he’d darted for when his pants suddenly became a whole lot wetter than they were supposed to be; while Quill, who’d followed out of curiosity and been treated to an eyeful when Yondu unzipped his boots, stripped the sodden leathers, and tossed them at his head, jigs about in panic; and the eggs grind their unstoppable passage through his contracting, too-tight cunt.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. This ain’t good. If the Ravagers plow through this meager defence line and make a clear blast-off, that’ll leave Quill and Yondu abandoned on a ship with a breached air supply, with a whole army between them and the escape pods. He’s gotta hurry this up. Gotta… gotta _push_ …

Only when he tries, something _pops_ in his hips and Yondu’s eyes glaze over. He only notices he’s making noise when Quill claps his hand over his bared teeth. It's big, warm, and Terran-smelling. It's also dripping - with blood from the Krees he’d ganked on the way, and a sheen of terrified sweat. “You gotta stay _quiet_ , sir. You want them to find us?”

No. Really, really no. But if Quill’s gonna bitch, perhaps _he_ oughta try keeping his mouth shut when pushing a pair of eggs out of a hole he doesn’t have much space for in the first place. It feels like his intestines are _straining_ to get out of the way, and heck, he sure hopes he don’t perforate nothing, because this would be one hell of a way to die. Communicating all of that via eyebrow wriggles is nigh impossible though. Yondu settles for crunching up off the table Quill’d poured him onto when his legs first gave out. He gathers fistfuls of his leather jacket and bicep, smacking his forehead into Quill’s shoulder until the next cycle of cramps pass. His teeth scrape as his jaw works through the pain. Sparks whizz off the metal caps. Yondu tastes copper, and realizes he’s bitten his tongue – because hey, what’s one more hurt on top of the one burrowing out from between his legs?

Fuck though. _Fuck_. If he squeezes much harder, he’ll turn himself inside out…

Quill stops fidgeting when it percolates that Yondu’s as good as clinging to him, a fact more terrifying in its unexpectedness than any Kree threat. Swallowing dry spit, he tentatively drapes arms over his captain’s quivering, leatherclad back.

“I’m calling Kraglin,” he says. The next blazing slip of the eggs prevents Yondu from ordering him otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Well, that's a cliff and a half for all y'all to hang on. You're welcome. Please tell me how evil I am in the comments.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CN: Violence. And graphic egg-laying I guess??? I'm only as sick for writing it as you are for reading it.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm sorry this is so late! Thank you for being patient with me.**

“Y’remember when I told ya to cum in me?” Yondu takes a deep breath. Focusses, ignoring the pain that’s amping towards satanic-torture-levels from the region of his overtaxed womb. “Turns out, that were a really, _really_ dumb idea.”

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later, Yondu regrets not whistling an arrow through Quill’s commlink when he had the chance.

“Whaddya mean, Quill knows?” From the hitching jerk of his voice, Kraglin’s either sprinting or about to burst into tears. Yondu spares an amused smirk at the latter mental image – truncated when a contraction mashes the eggs into his appendix. Kraglin carries on, too irate for sympathy, and Yondu winces as the pressure on his innards increases, praying that if they pop they’ll at least have the decency to wait until he’s thought up some snappy comebacks.

“Does everyone on this crew know? ‘Cept _me,_ of course. Because oh, I dunno, heaven forbid you tell _me_ anything! Hell, why’m I even surprised? Fuck you, sir. You’re the biggest damn jackass I know. And don’t you tell me I can’t talk to you like that. Heck, after this…” He trails off. When he next speaks, it’s small and hurt and everything Yondu doesn’t want to hear. “How could you? They’re mine too.”

And he cuts the link.

His muscles insist that the eggs are coming out without further ado. His pelvis, ass and cunt make their objection known, and Yondu, sweat dribbling into his high-necked furry collar, thunks his forehead off Quill’s shoulder in the hopes that he’ll give himself a concussion.

Fuck.

Kraglin hung up on him. Kraglin _hung up on him_ , when he’s fucking giving _birth to their kids_ ; and okay, so perhaps Yondu deserves a week of the silent treatment, but can’t that wait until eggs are in pouch and he’s not about to split down the middle, hotdog-style?

“I can’t believe he did that,” says Quill. Then, with rising panic and volume – “I can’t believe he did that! What do I do now?”

“Quit screaming in my ear’d be a start.” Yondu gnashes his teeth against Quill’s shoulderguard, not caring that it’s getting smeared with spit. The table is an unyielding plateau; Yondu’s bare knees bore into the metal as if he can anchor himself there. Everything’s set up, best as it can be amid this omnishambles of a raid. He’s vertical, letting gravity work its magic, Quill acting as crutch in case he keels, and as an afterthought, Yondu fishes for his discarded pants to give the eggs something soft-ish to land on. There. Perfect.

He’ll just do this alone, if Kraglin ain’t looking to be helpful. He doesn’t need him anyway.

If Quill notices how much his hands are shaking, he’s wise enough to keep his mouth shut.

Boy’s doing well, all things considered. Yondu squints up, grimace pinching his eyebrows into the bridge of his nose, and concentrates on Quill’s expression so he doesn’t have to think about the dark and silent comm light on his chronometer. “What?” he croaks, causing Quill’s eyes to break their adamant affixation on the opposite wall. “Don’t’chu turn pussy on me now –“

“Ironic,” says Peter, which earns him a hard-nailed flick to the earlobe. “Ow. So maybe I deserved that. I’ll, uh. Shut up. Let you _give birth_ in peace.”

Oh no he doesn’t. If Kraglin’s not gonna grace him with his verbal company, Quill will have to suffice. Yondu shakes his head, crammed where it is under Peter’s chin, and punches him weakly in the gut. “S’just laying eggs,” he gasps. “Ain’t no big deal. So keep talking, would y- _oh, fuck._ ” The eggs, which had lodged at the narrowest funnel of his hips, decide they’ve loitered long enough. Something _cracks_. When Yondu’s legs give out, slumping his whole bodyweight onto Quill, the undersides of his eyelids wash livid red.

“Shit,” Quill’s saying, fingers digging into his sides. “Shit, shit, shit…” Yondu feels something slippery on his inner thighs, hears a faint _plip_ of liquid slapping table. Cracks his aching eyes, not without reluctance. Looks down, vision becoming increasingly bleary, and stares at the spreading blue. His pants are bundled beneath the crux of his squat. They’re getting soaked. That’s not good; the babies’ll get all dirty, and Kraglin’ll be even more pissed off than he already is…

“That’s not supposed to happen!” By the pitch of his voice, Quill’s bordering hysterical. So much for keeping quiet. “Oh shit, whaddo I do, what do I do! Tell me what to do!”

Yondu, half collapsed onto him as the trickle of blood increases to a steady gush, wishes he knew.

Then there’s a plip from his comm. “M’sorry,” Kraglin says, breathless. “Lost the signal… Running to medbay. Here now. Mijo here too. Gonna… Help you.” His voice comes in stops and starts, and it’s prickly with exertion. (Or irritation. Probably both.) Yondu would say he’s never heard a sweeter sound, but that’d be bullshit and cliché and _sentimental_ , so he settles for gratitude that Kraglin hasn’t jumped ship and joined a rival faction.

His mouth doesn’t quite get the message. “Yer still here?” he whispers. Quill’s coat makes a semi-decent muffler, but his comm’s sharp enough to pick out the words nevertheless. The miniscule hologram projection reveals Kraglin, showing off his sharp yellowed fangs, grin interrupted as he doubles over and pants.

“Course I am, sir. They’re mine too, right?”

Thank everything. Yondu coughs a laugh. “Actually,” he manages, before the first egg completes its downwards bludgeon and pops into the makeshift nest, accompanied by another bloody cobalt spurt, “Horuz is the daddy.”

Kraglin snorts and flips him the bird. It says all that he needs to – as does the dorky grin on his face, when Quill _hurks_ and dry-gags before whimpering “Well, that’s one,” into his trembling palm.

The second follows in relatively rapid succession, the way having been cleared (and god knows what burst on the way). Quill grabs Thing 1 so Thing 2 doesn’t land on it and the both of them split, bitching and griping the whole way – “Oh god, ew, _ew_ , I can’t believe I’m touching it; it’s all slimy and gross, _ew_ …” When Yondu twists his head sideways, cheek smushed into the front of Quill’s jacket and eyes starting to droop, he sees Peter cupping an opal-like orb, slathered over in liquid blue. It looks… well, like a gemstone. Had felt like one too, when it was punching out of him.

“If you drop that, I’mma whistle,” he manages. His balance has gone all weird and he’s not so much _light-headed_ as he’s got a brain full of helium, and he fishes feebly through the mess beneath him to rescue the other egg before he all out collapses.

“What’re you doing?” Quill asks as he shifts. Kraglin’s voice rings over the comm, faraway and static-laced, frantic words not quite coalescing in Yondu’s mind.

“Captain? Sir? You alright?”

Stupid fucking question.

Yondu’s fingertip grazes the second egg. It is, as Peter said, more than a little sticky, and he can smell the gummy concoction of blood and afterbirth that’s sluicing over his hand. He nudges it out from under his ass, hand lingering on the shell – warmed from the friction of ripping him open, but without much heat to itself, like a fresh-hewn bone. He can just see the foetus inside, curled and silent, afloat in an amniotic sac. It’s hard to discern skin-color through the translucent crystal-like membrane, but Yondu thinks he might see pastel blue.

“They’re beautiful,” he says, and he tries to do it in Xandarian but for some reason all that comes outta him are clicks, which don’t mean nothing to nobody.

Quill pushes him rearwards, making him rest on his bare heels. Uses Yondu’s pants to sponge off the babies – not that they’re much cleaner – and does his best to answer the slew of questions pouring from the comm.

“What’s happening?” asks Mijo, brisk and professional, while the boom of Kraglin’s pacing steps provides a high-tempo background beat. “How’s he doing?”

Quill assesses the table, the mortified flush that’s been purpling his face since Yondu first started to strip fading to whey-like fear. “Well, there’s blood,” he says, fighting to keep a steady voice. “But I’m not volunteering to stick my fingers up there and find out where it’s coming from.”

“How much blood are we talking?”

“Uh. A lot.” Quill glances at the door, where the sounds of the firefight have long since faded. He only hopes enough chaos has been wreaked that the Kree have bigger things to fret over than the weird sounds coming from their rec room. “And. I don’t think he’ll be walking any time soon. Can we get an assist?”

The fact that Yondu doesn’t take the chance to impart his own opinion on the matter, obstinate that they don’t need no rescuing, speaks for itself.

Kraglin storms for the door. “I’m on my way,” he says.

P

* * *

 

‘Bigger things to fret over’ turns out to be the number of gory blue cadavers littering the corridor. “Well,” says Yondu hoarsely, one arm slung over Quill’s shoulder and the other set considerably lower on Kraglin’s. “Least we won.” He even manages to say it in Xandarian this time.

Kraglin rolls his eyes, and shunts a little more of his weight onto Quill so he can free his blaster. He’d arrived without much fanfare – thank fuck, or they’d all be dead – locking on several compartments away from the initial breach, which would no doubt be crawling with workers, but close enough that he didn’t have to trawl through the entire ship in search of them. First thing he did when he saw the state Yondu was in – curled on the table’s edge, pants buckled under his new egg-stuffed paunch and wincing every time he breathed – was spill out a pocketful of soldier pills, blood thickening agents, and anaesthetic syringes: the sort Yondu likes best, that don’t dull you completely but take the edge off so you can do other important things like talk, think, and walk.

The latter’s not going too well, despite his best efforts.

Yondu, gingerly shuffling around a corpse, tries not to let the strain show. The eggs in his pouch grind on whatever is currently doing its damnedest to clot inside of him. Quill’d helped him put them in, bitching and whinging the whole way (“Gross, gross, _gross_ ; I can’t believe I’m doing this; did I do something wrong in a past life?”).

The elastic skin flap sealed shut around their smooth spheres, tight as an envelope, and from what few rudimentary anatomy lessons Yondu can recall he knows that once the eggs soften and disintegrate, subsuming back into his body, the little ones will latch onto his internal teats and start to feed. Weird, but… Kinda cool, too.

“Okay,” whispers Kraglin as they come to a fork. He drops Yondu, Quill grabbing him under both armpits to prevent the sudden slump, and whips out of cover, pistol tracking across the breadth of the corridor beyond.

There’s a gasp. A sizzling bolt of plasma. But Kraglin’s voice filters through straight after, husky with the effort of staying quiet:

“Clear.”

He musta shot first.

Yondu lolls on Quill’s side, legs more sluggish with every passing second. His walk goes from a stagger to baby-steps, and then ceases altogether, feet dragging through the post-battle detritus and viscera.

“Uh, Kraglin?” Quill calls. Snaps his mouth shut when Kraglin, scoping the way ahead, spins furiously and puts his pistol to his lips in an adamant order for _silence_. “Sorry,” comes the sheepish mutter. Then: “Little help?”

A door whooshes open behind them from an adjoining room. A young Kree woman steps out in full battle gear, and goggles at the scene before her. Kraglin, teeth gritted, pops her in the skull before she has chance to reach for her holsters. “Just pick him up,” he says.

Yondu might be nearing unconsciousness, but he ain’t there yet. The shock of what Kraglin’s implying is enough to lurch him into new alertness. “Don’tchu fuckin’ dare, boy! Just cause I ain’t made good on that promise to eat ya, don’t mean I wo-“ Scooping him into his arms turns out to be an effective way of shutting him up. For five seconds, at least. “Hey, careful with the merchandise!” Yondu grips Quill’s shoulder, bloody pants clinging to his legs, and glares at him close range. “Couldn’t ya have given me a piggy back or something?”

“You think I _want_ to be doing this?” Quill puffs. “You’re mighty heavy. Drop a coupla pounds when we get back to ship, would you?”

Yondu noogies his knuckles against Quill’s temple. “Ya say that like we’re ever gonna be in _this_ situation again…”

“Shut up, shut _up!_ ” Kraglin hisses from ahead, motioning angrily with his pistol barrel. They obey, if only because if they get him any more livid he’s liable to shoot them and claim they got ambushed should anyone dare question him. Well. Yondu doesn’t _think_ Kraglin would shoot him. Not when he’s incubating their progeny – but that doesn’t apply to Quill, and the end result’ll be much the same if their muscle goes down and Kraglin has to haul Yondu’s ass about on his weedy lonesome.

…All things considering, perhaps it’s best that Quill didn’t toss him over his shoulders in a fireman lift and be done with it. Yondu’s sure his eggs are tough lil’ blighters, but being crushed between his torso and Quill’s back might’ve proved their undoing. They’ve come this far. Yondu figures they oughta go the rest of the way together – him, Sproglet 1 and Sproglet 2 alike. Losing them now… Well, it’d render all the hard work he’d gone to in birthing ‘em useless, wouldn’t it?

“Okay,” whispers Kraglin once they’re level with him, Quill rejigging Yondu against his chest to get some of the weight off his forearms. Yondu, catching Kraglin’s eye, decides against complaining. “I’ll go first. There’s a whole fuckin’ hive of tunnels between here and my breach, so I’ll scout ahead, come back and tell ya when it’s safe to move. Sound good?”

Sounds pretty shitty, especially if they’re surprised by a patrol from behind. But it’s the best they’ve got. Yondu nods, a split-second behind Quill, and glares at him for daring to okay the plan ahead of his captain. It loses some of its potency when most of it’s directed at the stubble on the underside of Quill’s jaw.

Ahead, the corridor is intermittently black as deepspace and lit with the vivid red flash of an emergency beacon. Looks like something out of a nightmare. Washed in blood to the pound of an unearthly heart. Ten paces ahead, it veers sharply to the left; a blind corner that could be hiding the remaining half of the Kree battalion. Nowhere to go but forwards though. If Ravagers spooked at the first glimmers of danger, they’d never have gotten their name known among the stars.

“Let’s go,” says Kraglin, mouth a grim line. He stalks into the shadows, Quill on his heels – then waves for them to halt and pads around the bend solo. His voice filters back, almost lost amid the whir and grind of overtaxed engines somewhere far below, as the Kree ship struggles to maintain its forcefield over its new holes. “Clear.”

For the next hundred yards, the only sounds are their measured breaths – Quill’s marginally shorter from lugging him, Yondu’s high and patchy as the initial painkiller-haze ebbs – and Kraglin’s soft “clear”. By the time they approach the final fork, their confidence is waxing. Barely accosted thus far, and only a few meters left to go… Safety’s in sight. Kraglin barely bothers peep from behind the cover before flinging himself forwards into the corridor, and –

There’s the sudden blare of blasters. Multiple ones. Swearing, Kraglin thuds back around the corner, clutching his side.

“Not clear,” comes the verdict.

Quill being Quill, nibbles his lips and suggests they run for it. But they all know they wouldn’t have a chance in hell. Kraglin narrows his eyes at Yondu, whose own gaze swims in growing trepidation to the spreading red stain under Kraglin’s hand. Then nods to Quill, and strides out once more.

More blaster fire. One loud scream – too low to be Kraglin’s, thank fuck; but it’ll still draw others like flies to fresh dung. Kraglin staggers into the shelter for a second time, holding up a wordless three fingers while he catches his breath. The blood slicking his jacket is a ruby stain, stretching from pectoral to waistband, and Yondu can see his knees quake as he forces himself upright again.

“Almost clear,” he spits, and loads his last plasma clip.

Yondu grabs Quill’s neck, using it to heave himself from prone to sitting: arm looped at the elbow across Quill’s shoulders and legs sidesaddle in his arms. “Get me out there,” he orders.

Quill glances at him, eyebrows pinched with worry as Kraglin advances once more. “Y’know I can’t shoot if I’m holding you, right? I can only multitask so much –“

“I can still whistle, can’t I?”

No one’s denying that. If Quill dares, Yondu’ll prove it to him, here and now. He glowers until the boy relents, shooting a queasy look to the wall that is rapidly acquiring scorch marks (Yondu tells himself each is one that’s missed Kraglin).

“Okay.” Quill nods. Draws a deep breath. Releases it in a steady blow, as if he’s undergoing ritual cleansing before seppuku. Yondu clears his throat.

“Hurry the fuck up. If Kraglin dies I’m gonna make you babysit.” That’s enough motivation for anyone.

“Right,” says Quill.

He sprints into the open, Yondu holding on best he can and wetting his lips in preparation. A harsh trill, a blare of _direction_ from his implant, and the Kree standing over a kneeling Kraglin with a pistol to his head stares in bewilderment at the sizzling slice in his oblique.

“Can’t you aim any better?” wails Quill as the soldier clutches his new hurt and levels his weapon at them instead. Yondu kicks him on the hipbone, the nearest part his boots can reach, and concentrates. It’s difficult. He ain’t exactly at his best – but he puts the arrow through the Kree’s cold blue heart before he can squeeze off a shot.

“Clear,” Kraglin mutters, pushing slowly to his feet. His side’s blood-drenched – not all of it his, but enough to arouse concern. Y’know. If _concern_ was a thing that Yondu did.

He whistles again, arrow zipping to its holster, and takes stock of his Second in Command. Kraglin scrubs more blood out of his eyes, leaking from a gash on his forehead – but head wounds always gush, so there’s not too much to worry about there. What’s more disturbing is the way his jaw works through agony as he straightens his spine, palm applying pressure to the hole in his gut as if he can pinch the raw nerve endings into submission. But he manages to sag in the vague direction of the breach hole, and nods to Yondu as he passes.

 _Thanks for havin’ my back_. Words that never need to be said, but stew beneath the surface anyway.

Yondu returns it, and is grateful that he doesn’t need to tell Quill to dump him on the nearest horizontal bit of flooring inside the M-ship and backtrack to drag Kraglin up the gangway before heading to the pilot’s seat. “I have to do everything for you guys,” he complains as he punches in the ignition sequence. The airlock hatch closes like a shrinking camera focus, and the last Yondu sees of the Kree base is the glazed eyes of the man he shot. Then they’re soaring, space whipping past the dark-glazed portholes and rockets vibrating silently beneath their feet.

“Hush it, Quill. Babies are sleepin’.” Kraglin, flat out besides him, raises a shaking hand to cup the smooth double-bulge visible under Yondu’s coat. Long white fingers map the shape of the eggs. They’re already starting to lose their rock-like consistency as they register the warmth and humid habitat of his internals, and at Kraglin’s touch, that curious shard of pleasure prickles through him again, implant buzzing in primal satisfaction.

“Babies,” Kraglin repeats. For the first time since he’d come barrelling through the doors, Yondu spies a smile on his face, albeit one still shaky and disbelieving at the edges. “Our babies.”

“Yeah.” Smirking (and satisfied that Quill’s distracted with the controls) Yondu flops onto his side and foregoes wiping the blood from Kraglin’s underlip in favor of tasting it. “Congratulations, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'll see you all in hell.**
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> **Please dump a comment below; they truly mean the world.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **GUESS WHO LIED ABOUT UPLOAD ORDER. I got this edited faster than I'd thought - so, enjoy!**

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” blurts Quill, soon as he walks in. Mijo’d stabilized them while onboard the shuttle, and smartly gotten Czar to order the crew to their bunk-blocks, locking down for a cosmic storm that never deigned appear while her assistant and Peter hustled the patients to her medbay. After that, Quill had been unceremoniously strong-armed away and Mijo had entered full surgery mode – slicing and dicing until no more nasty gooey internal bits were liable to flop out of gut cavities and/or burst.

Honestly, Quill’d missed all the fun. But he’s still all goggle-eyed, like he’s witnessed them claw outta their graves. 

Yondu, flat out and feeling much more refreshed after being knocked out, stitched up, hooked up to a blood baggie and dosed on a cocktail of foul-tasting drugs, shuffles on his elbows so Quill’s view of his eye roll is unobstructed by his distended pouch. “Gee thanks, boy,” he says. Quill picks up on the genuine note underlying the sarcasm – that, or he projects it there himself; that’s the more likely option – and ducks him a quick embarrassed nod. 

That’s enough mush for one day. 

Yondu turns his attention to the room’s other occupant. Woozy he may be, but it’d take more than a coupla recently-patched internal bleeds to dampen his leer. “Well, seeing as you ain’t gonna be sticking yer cock in me until the stitches come out, I hope you’re ready for a dicking tonight.” 

They’ve had a victory. That deserves celebration – as does the smile that’d grown on Kraglin’s face, as he’d rested his palm on Yondu’s stomach and felt the hard domes of the eggs recede into a smoother lump, foetuses coiled side by side, while their blood mingled red-and-blue on the floor of the grimy M-ship hold. 

Kraglin’s not smiling now. He’s fighting the urge to, though. “I took a gutshot,” he reminds Yondu, patting his own bandaged stomach. “Prob’ly a bad idea.” 

“You’ll just have to suck my cock then,” Yondu agrees. 

As expected, Quill blanches and about-turns for the door. “Uh, that’s my cue. Have fun.” 

“Not in my medbay,” chimes Mijo, sidling from behind the thin partition where she keeps her equipment (it ain’t exactly _sterile_ , but once a day she lugs the whole lot to the engine rooms for a quick blast of radiation, so it’s close). Kraglin groans and thumps his head on the pillow. His cheeks go patchwork pink and red. Yondu, infinitely more shameless, snickers – then winces, when something tugs. His insides are all numb – hopefully ain’t gonna stay that way, or sex with Kraglin will get a lot more boring. But whenever he shifts, the extra weight stretches the thin pouch membrane like it’s clingfilm. 

“Y’alright?” asks Kraglin, lolling his head to one side – can’t sit, what with the whole tube’s worth of healing nanite-gel Mijo’d slathered his belly with. 

Yondu’s not exactly complaining. Finding out what Kraglin’s intestines looked like had never been on his to-do list. 

(After Mijo’d fixed him, insisting on treating them in that order despite Yondu’s insistence that the clotting agent had done its job, Kraglin had looked so _still_ and _small_ and _white_ on the shuttle floor. His blood shone vivid red. It stood out against the Ravager jacket, which had been peeled apart to give Mijo access (and, as it turned out, was keeping the majority of his viscera where they belonged). Yondu’d only remembered that oxygen was a thing his species required occasionally when he started to get lightheaded, unable to stop staring at Kraglin’s torso, peeled apart like a vivisectioned labrat. “Breathe,” Mijo had snapped at him, digging shreds of leather from the gory stew. “He might be fine if I can stabilize him, but if you dare pass out on me I’ll have no choice but to focus on you. Captain comes first, remember?” And well, that’d cinched it. (It was also one stupid fucking rule, as fun as it might be to waltz into the medbay and demand priority for an ingrown toenail when someone you didn’t like needed brain surgery.)) 

Yondu snorts, crossing his arms – then resettles them over his belly. “Course I am.” He clears his throat, side-eyeing Mijo. Then decides _what the heck,_ she’s watched him flounder through this damn mess thus far. “Alright, listen up. You just went and got yerself shredded half to bits with plasma-fire like a noble, self-sacrificin’ _idiot_. Don’t’chu ever do that again.” 

“Sorry sir,” says Kraglin cheerfully. “Couldn’t hear ya over the heart monitors.” 

“M’serious,” Yondu says, before Mijo can risk a giggle. He lowers stern blue brows. “You got responsibilities n’shit now. You’re a dad. Can’t just be walkin’ into blaster fire without a plan, not when there’s folks who give a crap if you die. I don’t care what’s at stake.” 

It’s Quill’s job to wax sentimental (and earn plenty of laughter at his own expense). Now he’s not doped to high heaven Yondu can’t bring himself to emulate him, so this is the closest he’ll get. Kraglin seems to understand though. His mirth fades, and he inclines his head. Not quite in acquisition. But it’s an acknowledgment, at least – that Yondu’s one of _those folks_ (as if he ain’t made that clear every time he drapes his arms round him to sleep and mumbles “Love ya,” against his chest), and that watching Kraglin expire would possibly, truly, fuck him up. 

They’re saved from the awkward silence by Czar, who tiptoes into the medbay, light on his feet for a guy his size. He gives Mijo a nod and Kraglin a wave and Yondu a half-assed salute that’s more of an eyebrow rub. “So,” he says, propping hands on hips and nodding to Yondu’s bare belly. “Think you got somethin’ to tell the crew. Wanna start with me?” 

Ugh. It’s what he’s been dreading. No point spinning a yarn about divine intervention or whatnot; Czar smells bullshit from a mile, unless he’s been at the cider again. (Yondu does briefly consider tapping out a text to Quill’s comm and ordering him to swing by with a bottle, but dismisses it; he’s gotta face this conversation _someday_.) 

“Coupla brats,” he says. Wriggles his bare toes (no boots on the bed, Mijo insisted) in Kraglin’s direction. “He’s the dad.” 

“I think,” comes the snide reply, “I’d worked that much out for myself.” 

Yondu turns his smile saccharine. “Them two brain cells of yours musta been rubbin’ mighty hard. Ain’t that a fire risk?” 

There’s a long pause. Then Czar’s practiced scowl splits into a grin, and he drags over a chair to straddle – not mentioning the way Kraglin’s neck muscles untense or Yondu ceases his casual toying with his arrowhead. “I cannot fuckin’ believe you guys. Ain’t Petey enough of a nuisance? But you go get yerselves saddled with two – _two_ – more?” 

“Don’t look at me,” Kraglin mutters. “Asshole only told me yesterday.” 

“Ouch.” 

Czar’s an old friend – oldest he’s got, actually; fellow ‘primitive’ whose species have no concept of lying or sarcasm. Joining the Ravagers had changed the first. Befriending Yondu – or at least, the closest they got to something as simple and easy as _friendship_ in their line of work – has worked wonders on the second. But regardless of his trusted status, Yondu doesn’t care for his relationship counselling. “How d’you think crew’ll take it,” he growls, getting back to business. Czar’s shrug’s a little too relaxed. 

“Dunno. If you’d mentioned it sooner –“ 

“I told you so,” Mijo mumbles. 

“ – Well, they’d’ve wanted ya to get rid of ‘em. Like I said: Quill was bad enough.” Oh yeah. Yondu remembers the palaver of the boy’s early years, back before he’d earnt respect (or lots of units, which amounted to much the same thing). He’d hauled him out of Shorro’s stewpot more times than he cared to recount – and that was without mentioning the myriad incidents where Horuz had ‘accidentally’ ejected him from the airlock. 

The hand resting on Yondu’s stomach curls into a fist. “And now?” 

“Like I said. Dunno. But I’ll tell you one thing…” Czar leans on the chairback, looking earnestly into Yondu’s eyes. “Get the Bridge crew on your side, and the rest’ll follow. Get them to like the idea of havin’ brats around – or convince ‘em it’ll be good for business – and they’ll guard them with their lives.” 

Okay. Makes sense. Ravagers love money more than their own mamas. But how the fuck is he supposed to convince twenty of his wiliest and smartest that two extra mouths on board – mouths who ain’t gonna do much more than make noise and mess for the first year – are anything other than a dumb fucking idea, let alone a fortune in the making? 

Although… It is only one year. 

“We cycle through the infant stage mighty fast.” He’s thinking aloud more than expending valuable lucidity on plotting – but sees Kraglin, Czar and Mijo perk nevertheless. “I remember, the lil ones started chirpin’ still in the pouch. Then they’re running about as soon as they’re too big to fit in it – all fours, mostly, but fuckin’ impossible to catch unless you got boobs and a net.” His species were far from the apex predators on Alpha Centaurii. Being able to scamper away when spooked, rather than sit on your ass and _scream_ like most one year olds from other species seemed to, had probably saved them from extinction. However, thinking about what he’s just said (and what boobs entails for his personal future) that’s gonna be more a problem than a solution. Horuz can pretend they _got underfoot_ if they piss him off. 

Yondu shakes his head. Then rewinds his half-verbalized contemplation, and snaps his fingers. “ _Chirpin’ in the pouch_. That’s it!” 

Kraglin frowns. “You want them to use yer arrow?” 

“No – fuck no, thas mine, they’ll get their own –“ He holds up a hand, staving off the barrage of protests from doctor and mate at the thought of giving infants access to deadly weapons. “No, _no_ , just shaddup a moment and _think_. There ain’t many Centaurians left. No Zatoan that I know of. If the Nova Corps ever got their hands on our brats, they’d deliver ‘em straight to the nearest reservation sanctuary – them that haven’t butchered each other over dumb tribe stuff.” He grins at their horrified faces. “Cool it; m’getting to the good part. Those places are damned well guarded, y’know? All sortsa high tech security shit, ensure no outside influences can burst the lil’ bubble worlds of their pet endangered species… Hidden cameras everywhere too; s’practically a zoo. No chance of getting in or out unless you’re Nova or Centaurian.” 

Given that Mijo’s still goggling as if he’s suggested they use the babies for protein snacks, Czar takes it on himself to press for further explanation. “So…” 

“So, we dress up as Nova, and they’re our Centaurian ticket in. I’ll teach ‘em a coupla clicks. Even if they’re – uh, _pinker_ than expected, I’ll bet them preservationist types’ll be desparate enough for new blood they’ll snap ‘em up quicker than a heartbeat. All cute an’ innocent an’ all.” He certainly wouldn’t fit the profile. Too well known, too little fin. A Nova helmet would be his best bet of entering incognito – because he’s going with them, of course. No way is he gonna trust anyone else with his babies, especially not in enemy territory. Not even Kraglin. 

Kraglin, who’s gaping like he’s bonkers. “You… you want to _give them up for adoption?_ ” 

“No, dipshit. I wanna use them as bait.” 

“Thas even worse! 

Yondu doesn’t grace him with any reassurance. Why bother, when it doesn’t need to be said? He’s gonna guard the sproglets every step of the way, and if anyone dares _breathe_ on them without his _explicit_ say-so, they’ll grow an extra windhole. What could go wrong? 

“There’s a fuckin’ hive of riches there,” he explains, focusing on Czar instead. Good ol’ money-grubbing Czar, who beams as if Yondu’s offered him a raise. “Shit from lost cultures, gold jewellery an’ so forth. Y’know how much jackasses like the Collector pay for that?” He pushes to sit, slow and trembling, muscles still liquid. His movement makes the IV bag overhead swing like a fat red pendulum, a blur in the corner of his vision. The odd roll of babies against his innards is electrifying: tangible proof that all of this is real. Unfortunately, if this ain’t some majestic dope-induced hallucination, Kraglin’s glare is real too. 

Yondu ignores him. When _he_ comes up with a better plan to stop the crew tearing out all of their throats – and potentially those of their babies, Mijo, Czar, and Quill into the bargain – Yondu’ll listen. 

“We take the babies,” he croaks. He cups them with firm fingers, marveling at the way he can shift their weight about his pouch, so small and fragile. _His_. “We go in. And we rob them fuckin’ blind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **'What could go wrong?' - aka, Write_Like_An_American code for 'Yondu you fucking idiot, what are you doing, stop, just stop.'**
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> **You know the drill - tell me what you've thought if you want to motivate me to get the next chappie up!**
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> ****


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **A lot happens in this chapter. It's mostly sex.**

It takes a week for him to outgrow his underjacket. 

Horuz, whose paunch has stretched his own into a half-decent maternity top, generously donates it – or at least, doesn’t bitch when Yondu demands it, which amounts to much the same thing. It smells of huffer-smoke and whiskey and grizzled beard, but it’s better than hulking about deck with pregnant belly on display. And it stops his tits getting chilly, so there’s that. 

*** 

**1st month**

The crew takes things well, considering. 

Yondu’s adamant they know carrier don’t equal bitch. He’ll enforce the message with as much violence and graphic swearing as it takes to make it stick. Thus, while there’s sniggers and wisecracks to begin with, all cease after the first ten corpses have been strung along the prow in an eerie, weightless paper doll chain. 

Nope, Yondu’s having the time of his life. Carving a bloody swathe across the starways that’ll make any wannabe usurpers think twice. Butchering traders and guard squadrons and the occasional irritating rookie. Reminding ‘em all that a lil’ spot of pregnancy ain’t gonna stop him whistling, shooting, or kicking every damn ass in the galaxy. He’s tough. He’s strong. He’s bigger and badder than ever (‘bigger’ being, to his perturbation, quite literal). He’s Yondu goddam Udonta, and he can cope with this. 

…And he needs to pee. Again. 

The babies squash stomach and bladder and every other organ along the way. While Yondu’s _built_ for this part of the process, it’s still fucking uncomfortable. And to top it off, he can’t humor his cravings in the mess because it’d look like he was submitting to maternal instincts – and that’s one step away from _going soft._

Yondu sits in his chair and drums his fingers on the low dome of his pouch. He tries not to think about gobbling a truckload of those yucky sticky sugar-bars that were all Peter ate as a child. He can do this. Just gotta… tough it out. Not long now. Only three months until the sproglets emerge and they can implement Phase Two. 

As in: lug ‘em right into the danger zone. Use ‘em as _bait_ , in a trap sprung smack-bang in the middle of unfamiliar enemy terrain. 

Tactically, it’s stupid. Logically, it’s their only hope. Yondu’s gonna take his family and set them up for potential obliteration via Nova airstrike – because despite all propaganda to the contrary, he doubts the Corps give _that_ many shits about the Centaurian reservations, and if they learn the brats’re his, they’ll immediately become acceptable collateral. 

No wonder Kraglin’s pissed. 

But Yondu doesn’t _regret_ shit, not when he can be _doing_ shit. Shit like… plotting. Planning. Killing things. Not agonizing over his sproglets’ future, and certainly not studying at his reflection in the dull spaceglass and deciding that a pot-belly doesn’t suit him. 

*** 

Next day he’s kinda dizzy – not that he’ll ever admit it. When Kraglin shunts his rations at him, he’s met with ugly laughter. “Fuck no,” Yondu chortles, doubling his mirth to make up for the coldness in his mate’s gaze. “You ain’t playin’ Mr. Breadwinner – scrawny twig like you don’t have tyre to spare.” Nevertheless, he gazes longingly as the bowl’s contents vanish between Kraglin’s tight, angry lips, and retreats before he has to suffer another ‘I told you so’. 

Shorro dumps a double-portion before him at dinner-mess. He squelches nervously at Kraglin – who makes no acknowledgment, maintaining the mechanical lever of spoon to mouth without meeting Yondu’s eyes. 

Yondu considers tossing them both in the brig, but only briefly. He’s too hungry to complain. 

*** 

**2nd month**

Kraglin wrath subsides as it usually does: in dribs and drabs, here and there. A small smirk greets Yondu when he arrives on Bridge, rather than the scowl he’s accustomed to. When he wakes, there’s a chest sandwiched to his spine – rather than on the other side of the bed, or worse, absent altogether. 

It helps, having someone on his side. 

Well, four someones, to be precise. The efforts of Peter, Mijo and Czar must not be forgotten. It’s hard to believe he ever considered going about this alone. Even if he’d been able to hide the pregnancy (impossible; he feels like a goddam water-balloon) he’d never have been able to convince Peter to fetch and carry shit for him, or for Czar to dash about the ship on errands while Yondu lounges on his throne complaining about sore ankles or a stiff back. He’d certainly never get Kraglin to give him daily massages. 

Yondu groans, head lolling as his mate kneads tension from his rhomboids. Fuck. This’s the life. He oughta get pregnant more often. 

…Or not, given that the first time’d almost been enough to put him outta commission, permanent-like. 

Kraglin’s certainly of the latter mindset. When Mijo deems them able to safely shove bits in bodily orifices besides mouths (because yeah, blowjobs/handjobs are fun, but Yondu misses the exquisite squirm of Kraglin’s internal muscles almost as much as he misses the stab of his dick) they figure bareback is the best way to celebrate. 

Or rather, they don’t do much figuring at all. As soon as the cabin door’s shut everything’s hot, panting skids of skin on skin on sweaty leather, and they only swim back to their senses once they’re both splattered in white. 

Yondu’s skintone makes the jizz rather more noticeable. But he did manage to squirt a load on Kraglin’s abdomen; he combs through the wiry hairs now, freeing them of sticky cream. “So that was fun,” he rasps. Kraglin shares his smile. He can’t lean down to kiss him – Yondu’s pouch fills the space between them, bare blue skin stretched taut and shiny with pre-ejaculate, slick and cum. But he pulls out and rolls to one side, and their mouths meld to one another’s shape as if they’re cast from molten steel. 

Then, just as Yondu’s getting into it, nipping at Kraglin’s lips and wondering about the logistics of working his own cock inside Kraglin in future given the size of the baby-bump, Kraglin freezes. 

Yondu freezes too. “What?” he asks. 

Wordless, Kraglin points down. 

It takes a moment to realize what he’s on about. Then Yondu smirks, flopping liquid and lazy again, legs falling apart to accommodate the pressure of the twins above. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about.” He frames the slippery navy petals of his puss between thick blue fingers. “Can’t get knocked up twice, right?” 

“Yeah, but…” Kraglin rests a twitchy hand on his mate’s belly, rising high above a softening chest. “They ain’t up your cunt no more, are they? They’re in yer pouch. Guy bits, girl bits. Different organ.” 

Yondu doesn’t bother correcting him that _all_ his bits are ‘guy bits’ regardless of their appearance. The situation’s too dire for semantics. There’s a long pause. Captain and first mate meet each other’s eyes – then look to where Kraglin’s seed has just started to drip, striping Yondu’s inner thighs in creamy silver. Or rather, Kraglin looks. Yondu’s swollen pouch obscures his vision, but that means he has to watch Kraglin’s face instead – as it goes from sated to nervous in point three seconds. 

“Fuck,” Kraglin says. Yondu doesn’t make a sound. But he punches Mijo’s number into the comm-piece in three fierce jabs. 

“Fer the love of Thanos,” he bites out as soon as her grouchy “wassup?” rings through. “Tell me I ain’t got another bun in my oven.” 

*** 

“Do ya even know what _protection_ is?” Mijo rubs crusty eyes. They’ve interrupted her naptime, so she’s obligated to be grumpy as she runs the scanner one-handed over Yondu’s lower back, leaning on the pallet in lieu of her usual cane. “Here’s a hint. It’s that thing yer supposed to wrap yer dick in, so folks with corresponding genitalia don’t get fuckin’ pregnant.” 

“’Scuse me,” Yondu snaps, knelt shirtless on the bed’s edge. His stuffed pouch almost rests on his thighs. “Ain’t my fault I figured it couldn’t happen twice in a row.” 

“Perhaps finding out about your anatomy should be top of your to-do list, as opposed to more goddam sex.” 

“An’ who’m I meant to ask? Fuckin’ _Aardvark_ , or whatever our God was called?” _Anthos._ As if he’d ever forget. 

Mijo doesn’t deign that with response. But she’s careful not to touch that streak of scar-tissue, the pastel-blue line that slits Yondu nape to tailbone. When she shows him the scanner – CLEAR printed in pixelated Xandarian across a three-dimensional holoscreen – she shoots him an apologetic smile. “You’re good,” she says. 

“Thank the gods,” gasps Kraglin, who’s been jittering about his chair for the past ten minutes as Yondu and Mijo snarked and bickered and he boxed her ears (gently, ish) until she was coherent enough to operate the necessary machinery. Yondu glares. “What?” 

“Issit really that bad? Me, bein’ like this? With our brats in me?” 

“Huh? I didn’t say that – that ain’t what I said!” 

“Sure sounded like it from here.” Yondu folds his arms, trying not to look as uncomfortable as his elbows graze the top of his stretched pouch while it rubs his legs below. There’s just… so much of it. The twins fill him up, keeping him heavy and sluggish. Every movement takes a thousand times more concentration as he balances the extra weight. He’d be lying if he didn’t find it a tiny bit of a turn-on, but that’s eclipsed by the annoyance of outgrowing all your favourite leathers and looking like a whale left out on a sunny beach. 

“And those,” says Mijo cheerfully, patting Yondu on the shoulder, “are the hormones speaking. I’ll leave you boys to enjoy ‘em on your lonesome. I’ve got a date with my bed.” 

“So’ve we,” says Kraglin, to which Yondu scoffs because he ain’t forgiving him that easy. Mijo’s only reply is a pack of condoms, which sail over the top of the curtained partition and smack Kraglin in the face. 

*** 

**3rd month**

By now, everyone knows that when you see your captain lumbering towards the restroom, you give up your space in the queue gracefully. It’s easier that way. Lot less pain on your behalf; lot less noise-pollution from your screams on everyone else’s. 

*** 

“I hate this,” Yondu says one morning – although the temporal adverb is a technicality. No one in their right minds would term the hour after the midnight shift-switch as ‘morning’. They certainly wouldn’t consider it an apt time to poke your mate in the gut-scar until he shudders awake, for the sole purpose of moaning at him. 

“M’bein’ serious,” Yondu hisses urgently, as Kraglin struggles to stifle his yawn. “This’s shit, Krags. We ain’t never doing this again.” 

Kraglin nods along and tries to look sympathetic. “Sure, yeah. M’with ya, captain. No more sproglets. C’n we go back to sleep now?” 

“Thas the _thing!_ ” Yondu’s almost manic, eyes too wide, lips drawn all the way up to gum. “I _can’t!_ ” 

Kraglin waits for further explanation. And waits. And waits. Yawns so wide his jaws crack, and wonders if he missed Yondu elaborating thanks to his popping ears. 

Surely that can’t be it? Yondu ain’t a fussy guy. He’ll pull all-nighters until he drops rather than bitch about a few slack sleeping hours here and there. Missing a kip ain’t a good enough excuse to interrupt Kraglin’s. Heck, once the babies’re born they’re both gonna be up in the night; Kraglin’s brain informs him, with the selfishness of one recently woken from an REM-cycle, that at least _one_ of them oughta catch rest while they can. And that one should be him: he only found out he was gonna be a dad three months back, and needs ample time to prepare himself, body and mind. 

“S’that all?” he asks, just to make sure. The grip on his biceps becomes pinching, bruising, downright bone-crushing. Kraglin’s droopy eyes shoot open. He makes to smack Yondu off, well aware that the retaliation’ll likely be a fist – and that their usual program of wrestle-to-fuck probably isn’t advisable given the extra baggage around his mate’s waistline. “Fuck! Yondu, _what?_ ” 

Then he sees that Yondu ain’t hurting him in punishment. He’s using him as a stressball – head ducked, neck tendons bulging, skin around his knuckles blurred blue-white. And his shoulders are trembling. Just a little. 

_Hormones,_ Mijo had said. Kraglin sighs. 

He relaxes, fighting the urge to strain away from the too-tight grasp. Cups Yondu’s hips with his bone-thin hands, kneading small circles into the distended pouch-skin above. “Hey. You okay?” 

“They keep bitin’,” whispers Yondu. Kraglin looks down. He startles when he sees movement – visible through the membrane, which keeps the near-full-grown foetuses sealed and incubated in Yondu’s body. Elbows and knees bulge as they clamber around each other to get a better latch on his internal teats. On cue, Yondu flinches. “Got yer teeth,” he gasps, and even in the dark of the room – lit only by starlight, greywashed and shadow-filled – Kraglin can tell his eyes are wetter than they should be. 

There’s nothing he can do. No way of alleviating the pain, or even offering sympathy that won’t sound hollow. Swallowing the next yawn, Kraglin kisses Yondu on the mouth. He stills the wobble in his lips with the steadiness of his own. “Love ya,” he mumbles, in case he’s forgotten, and nudges Yondu until he’s sat more comfortably, spine propped against the headboard rather than having to strain against the pouch’s weight. 

“Yeah,” comes the soft reply. Yondu’s eyes are shut, and Kraglin swipes his thumbs over the lashes to make them dry again, as they’re supposed to be. The twins are still shifting, still _wriggling_ – he lays his palm on the warm flesh, exerting gentle pressure as if he can sooth them through presence alone. 

“Right lil’ pair of fighters we got here,” he says. Yondu snorts, but smiles too. 

“Tell me about it. And tell the one on the left to quit kickin’ my kidney.” Kraglin’s fatigue lulls to languidness as the beat of Yondu’s heart slows. His chest’s inches from his nose; all full blue flesh and swollen areolas. When Kraglin breaths over them, he sees the nipples perk up-close. Yondu swears under his breath. “ _Fuck_ , Kraglin…” 

“Won’t be long before they’re chewin’ on ya up here too.” Kraglin strokes under the nearest nipple. The tissue’s milk-heavy and pliable, and Kraglin pincers it, rolling the little bud between his fingers, so he can hear Yondu moan. 

“Quit _playin’_ with them; this’s weird enough already…” 

“You ain’t weird, boss. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous.” 

“Shut… Shut up…” 

Kraglin kisses his chest in answer, rolling round his body and between his legs. “Wanna fuck?” he breathes. Yondu’s shaking his head, wincing as Kraglin’s hand cups his mound and grinds him sweetly open. 

“M’too big…” 

Smirking, Kraglin glances down his nose at his boss’s navy cock. It’s certainly larger than it had been a few minutes ago. “Well, you ain’t too badly hung, sir. But don’t you get arrogant: I’ve taken ya before an’ I’ll do it again, no problem. How’s about now, in fact?” 

Yondu’s slick’s leaking along his wrist. He grabs that same wrist though, when Kraglin transitions to ease his foreskin from the head of his cock and smear it with translucent juice, and pushes him reluctantly away. 

“Nah – not tonight. Look. They ain’t moving no more. Might actually nod off, if we keep it down.” 

Last thing he wants is to rewake the terrible two. Kraglin nods and withdraws, not without regret. He wipes his hand on the sheets before tilting Yondu’s face up to kiss. “Can I go back to sleep then?” he whispers, and Yondu grants acquiescence with a scoff and a roll of his now-dry eyes. Then, once Kraglin’s lids close and his breathing steadies, starts to hum under his breath. 

*** 

It takes him several tries to recall the tune. S’been a while, after all. 

A very, very long while. He hasn’t heard it since he’d been small enough to be lugged about on the hip of the nearest adult, and hasn’t thought about it since his first night among the stars. 

Yondu concentrates on the rhythm of his breath, the lulling rise and fall of the drone-note and the beat of the obstruent clicks. Song’s something nonsensical about a little girl and boy who dance from tree to tree without ever touching ground. They juggle flowers and fruit and hide from the lurking swamp-monsters, and chase away the hammer-man with the sound of their laughter, because everyone knows the hammer-man’s afraid of happiness. 

The elders had spoken of the hammer-man with real fear. Yondu, along with the other young hunters who thought they were big and brave enough to conquer the world, had brushed that fear aside. Oldfolk superstition. There were bigger and toothier things to be afraid of in the Centaurian jungle. Given what he knows now though, Yondu wonders why they sang this song in the first place. Morale-boosting it might have been, but if the elders’ aim was to impart useful advice, they failed. 

Laughter can’t stop the hammer-man. Nothing can. 

If he wants to claim you, all you can do is run – run, and not accept uncovered drinks from strangers in dodgy bars after you’ve been banished from your home planet. Bars where everyone looks the other way as an unconscious Centaurian is dragged to the exit. 

The song jars off. Kraglin kneads his calf, lips quirked in a smile. “That were nice,” he rasps. Not as asleep as he’d assumed – Yondu refuses to show surprise. “S’there any more?” 

Yes. The music’s opened cobwebbed tracts in his brain, a memory palace whose doors should’ve stayed locked and barred. 

Yondu teases knots from Kraglin’s Mohawk with one hand while the other pets his aching, bloated stomach. “Don’t remember,” he lies. Kraglin shrugs and settles more comfortably, skating his lips along the pouch seam before resting his head on his thighs. Given that he ain’t using it, Yondu steals Kraglin’s pillow to stuff between his neck and the headboard, and swamps any unwanted recollections beneath thoughts of how he can go about fucking Kraglin without the twins getting in the way. 

Sure, if the hammer-man wants you, he gets you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t escape him again. 

*** 

The answer, it turns out, is not without difficulty. But Ravagers don’t retreat from a challenge. 

Kraglin’s on his side, legs in a wide cross. Yondu straddles the lower, running ragged nails up and down his mate’s raised thigh, which strains with the effort of not compressing his pouch. It’s intense for the both of them. Yondu hilts with a practiced push, knowing to move fast enough to keep Kraglin on the cusp of pain, slow enough that the burn and stretch is concentrated but not agonizing. He pushes on Kraglin’s leg to open him further, slide in deeper, fill him just the way they like. “Thas’ it,” he purrs, grinding his cock in place. “Gonna fuck you so good…” 

Kraglin doesn’t answer – can’t, really. But the thigh beneath Yondu twitches. Its hairy, bony length scrapes open the lips of his cunt like it’s peeling apart a flower. Yondu rocks onto it, into him, and waits for the slackening of Kraglin’s trembling lips before he starts to thrust. 

One of Kraglin’s hands ends up splayed over Yondu’s pouch, the other cupping a small pert breast – breasts Yondu ain’t all that comfortable with, but Kraglin seems to like ‘em, so he’ll make do. Callouses abrade the sensitive skin. There’s a triplicate bond that’s been stirring since this whole fiasco started, and Yondu’s never understood it more succinctly than now. A bolting circuit ties them together, soaring from him, to Kraglin, to the sproglets and back again. It throbs and swells in time with the heat brewing in his gut, and Yondu bucks into Kraglin with a gasp, shamelessly rocking his pelvis to stimulate clit and cock simultaneously. His eyes quiver shut as he cums, Kraglin purring and finishing in near-synchrony. 

Yondu extracts himself to kiss him – ignoring the irritation that he can’t simply _lean over_ to do so. He shivers as their children shift inside him. The pain as a fang nicks his inner teats is by now familiar. It melds to happiness as Kraglin rubs the twin’s skull through the thin pouchskin, soothing them until their suckling gentles – a happiness which can’t even be disrupted by the trill of his comm that means Peter’s pinged him again, as he has been every fifteen minutes or so for the past hour. 

Yondu ignores this one, like all the rest. 

Then frowns as his comm trills again. Ain’t Peter got the message? Perhaps he oughta answer, if only to yell at him. 

But when he glances down, the blinking light informs him Peter only called once. 

Yondu turns to Kraglin. He raises a dark watch. “Weren’t mine.” 

What then…? 

There’s a faint chirp from his belly region. Both of them blink, twisting to assess the blue sac. The noise’s repeated, followed by the imprint of a tiny hand and a perfect imitation of the inbox tone. 

“Well,” says Yondu eventually, as Kraglin stares. “Guess that answers that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **That nasty little flashback of Yondu's will soon make more sense. Prepare to cry.**
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> **Also, please direct those pending tears at me and Fandomwho/ClassicalTorture equally. She helped plot this monster and deserves much of the blame. >:3**
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> ****


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Enjoy, m'dearies.**

Yondu attempts to buckle his pants under his pouch. Over it’s a lost cause, but under looks stupid, as if he’s wearing them halfway down his hips, like Peter when he was going through his _I’m a cool space-bandit and you will refer to me as Starlord_ phase (thinking about it, that phase has yet to cease.)

Yondu’s comm had chirped until well into the night (each time echoed by a peeping infant), at which point Peter had given up and come to bang on his door in person. By then, Yondu had been ignoring him for so long that to do otherwise would be to admit surrender. He grabbed Kraglin’s hairy arm before he could roll off the bed and calmly put a pillow over his face when he struggled. 

“It could be important!” Kraglin protested, once he’d tapped out. Yondu scoffed. 

“Peter, important? Ya gotta be kiddin’.” 

Only now, accosted by a wild-eyed Peter who’s sacrificed his usual until-noon sleeping pattern to get up before him, Yondu is forced to face the possibility that he might’ve been wrong. He reacts to this as he would any verbalized insinuation of the same: with a growl, a frown so steep it looks to have been carved by chisel, and a smack to Peter’s curly head. 

“What’chu doin’, boy? Snoopin’ outside my door… Yer lucky I don’t throw ya in the brig for eavesdroppin’!” 

“On you and Krags?” Peter pulls a face. “Ew.” 

That earns him another smack. It’s not as hard as it should be. Stupid maternal hormones. He still gets the urge to punch Kraglin, Czar, Mijo and the rest of his crew of dolts whenever they piss him off – indulges it, actually. But Peter reads as _child_ , despite that he’s thirty-something and a fair bit Yondu’s taller. As a result, Yondu’s been fending off twice the usual amount of accusations that he’s _gone soft,_ and has perhaps been exaggerating his Quill-borne irritation to compensate. 

Thus the blow looks powerful, but scarcely ruffles Quill’s hair. He still flinches, like he ought. It’s a mite slow though. The boy’s eyes are baggy and tired, almost as red as his. Yondu squints at him, and after a check of the corridor reveals them to be alone, doesn’t bother hiding his concern. 

“You okay? Whas so important it’s gotcha up and about before I have to send one of my boys with a klaxon?” 

Peter examines the new expression, which is either exhibiting worry or a very good parody of it, and wonders if he’s missing out on a joke. “Um. I’m. Fine? Just tired – we’re coming into orbit around the planet, and I’ve been trying to come up with a way to get us onto the surface without tripping any approach alarms, but you weren’t answering the comm, and –“ 

_“Us?”_

Peter, cut off, frowns. “Yes? I’m coming, right? Me and Kraglin –“ 

Yondu hasn’t thought this far ahead. That’s not like him. While he prizes himself on being adaptable, it’s damn good practice to have _some_ semblance of a plan before you go shooting up a hullabaloo on a Nova-protected reserve. However, most missions don’t hit this close to home. Most missions, while they involve endangering Kraglin and/or Peter, don’t also threaten to rip the babies from Yondu’s pouch and hand them over to new parents – _better parents_ , who keep up the old traditions and don’t make their living running about the galaxy robbing people. No; if Peter and Kraglin accompany him, Yondu could lose all the family he’s ever had in one wrenching swoop. 

Best he leave someone capable on ship. To keep the rest of the boys outta trouble, of course. 

“You stay,” he says. “No arguments.” 

Peter opens his mouth anyway. Then shuts it again. His eyes have gone all big. They track to Yondu’s pouch and linger there, swimming back every time he forces himself to look away. “Oh.” His voice is too small. He must realize, because he coughs and restarts. “Yeah, sorry. Stupid me. It’s a family-thing, right? You and the babies and Kraglin, going to get in touch with your roots or something…” He trails off. 

Yondu fills the silence. “It’s a mission, Quill. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with family: mine or yours. I want you here because…” _I don’t want you hurt._ “Because after Kraglin, Czar, and everyone else I’m takin’ with me, you’re about the smartest cat on board.” There. Gave him a compliment – or as close to one as he’s accustomed to giving. Yondu puts on his _good-work-soldier_ smile. “So, think ya can handle shit while we’re gone?” 

Quill's shoulders slump impossibly further. “Yeah.” 

“Good.” Yondu ain’t gonna compromise his decision – or face the horror of watching mate _and_ sort-of-son die. Not today. He claps Peter on the arm. “Good,” he repeats, and heads for the bridge, cradling his swollen pouch between firm blue hands. 

One hand atop and one beneath: that’s about as comfortable as it gets. Yondu rolls his shoulders, wishing he could lessen the strain on his back, and winces when his milk-full pectorals (breasts, _whatever_ ) rub. He feels like one of them pretty smiling Xandarian lasses, who parade across the Empire holovision channels advertising the benefits of a populous family – only not pretty, not smiling, and certainly not Xandarian. Or a lass, regardless of whether he’s got tits. 

He’s at the Bridge door by the time he realizes Peter hasn’t followed. Yondu’ll deal with that sooner or later, but for now, so long as Peter doesn’t do anything stupid (stupider than usual), he’s got to focus on the brats in his belly rather than the one standing alone in the deserted hallway, red light glossing the bags beneath his eyes. 

Peter, as a Big Boy, can handle himself. 

*** 

First thing Isla does is whistle in admiration. 

Everyone jumps. There follows a mass rustling, as twenty leather-clad backs relax upon the realization that the sound emerged from her lips and not Yondu’s. 

Isla swaggers over to him. Her grin takes up half her face, the other half being composed of shiny brown skin and more piercings than most species have pores. She’s short and stout and gloriously amused; she surveys his stomach like it’s a new compass to tinker with, and holds out an inquiring finger. 

Wise girl. Even Isla knows better than to pat without asking first. 

She waits for permission – given via stiff nod – before poking at the jacket, strained tight across his gut. The nearest twin kicks. Isla flinches. So does Yondu, although for different reasons. He bats her next assault to one side. “Thas enough. The rest of ya, quit gawkin’. Next a-hole who wants to paw my pouch, it’ll cost ya a million units and three fingers per turn.” 

That’s ample dissuasion. Isla, stowing fingers in pockets, gets to business. 

“Found us a set of Nova suits in storage,” she says, nodding at Czar. The suits are hung from the low central light beam that bisects the Bridge corner to corner, and Czar beats dust from the rumpled, armour-padded lycra with an iron rod. Yondu tilts a critical head. 

“They look…” 

“Old. Yeah, tell me about it. But unless ya wanna go shootin’ up a Nova station and alerting ‘em we’re up to something in the process? You’ll make do.” Isla’s one of the rare crewmembers who can get away without tacking a ‘sir’ to the end of every other sentence. Returning the favour, Yondu dismisses her not with a word, but with an elbow to the shoulder. Usually he’d aim a kick, but heaving his bulk about to deliver it ain’t all that appealing. 

“Alright,” he barks, stalking over to Czar. “Les get ‘em fitted. You, me, Krags, Is, Zqo; we’re the charge party. Morlug, Peter, Jax, Horuz – you lucky lot get to watch the ship. Assemble me a team for evac – if we give the order, you fly down and grab us. Don’t land no longer than you have to. Gottit?” 

“Why no landing?” Czar inquires. “We usually set up ambush spots on jobs like this, right boss?” 

Yondu smirks at him. He treats the big lug’s domed forehead to a knuckle sandwich. “Because, genius, we don’t want ‘em to ask why Nova corps are stashing undeclared squadrons in their forest. And trust me – it don’t matter how well they hide. If it’s Centaurians, they’ll know.” 

Dodging, Czar goes back to de-dusting the suits, looking dubious but knowing better than to argue. Yondu could laugh. If Czar thinks he’s scary on his lonesome, finless and surrounded by unfeeling metal, he’s gonna have one helluva party when they face off against a Centaurian tribe in their element. 

…Yondu just prays that that tribe’s smart enough to believe them, when they say their ship’s prepped to blast the settlement to smithereens. Once they’ve surrendered, the Ravagers can nip to homebase and Yondu can drop the brats off with Peter, before returning to the pillaging. Safe and neat, no extra fuss. Should the Centaurians fight back, however? That’s when things get messy. 

First things first though. They can’t go anywhere until the brats come out. 

Yondu’s stomach strains at the seams. When the pouch cracks, the twins will be half the size of regular newborns. They’ll need to incubate in it when they sleep for the first coupla weeks – or at least be kept warm and snuggly, swaddled in blankets and heaped around an exothermosphere. While their emergence will mean full steam ahead on the mission, Yondu’d be lying if he said he wasn’t getting impatient. He feels damn near ready to pop. His ankles fit too snuggly in his boots, Horuz’s jacket struggles to contain the sphere of tight, stretched flesh, and his back aches if he spends more than five minutes upright. 

Like now, for instance. He ain’t gonna collapse in his chair though, not until he’s supervised their preparations – so he makes do with leaning on Kraglin, just subtly, trying not to shudder as Thing One and Thing Two wriggle beneath his skin. 

*** 

Kraglin had made his exodus from Yondu’s cabin a calculated fifteen minutes before his shift started - although honestly, it weren’t like anyone on board _hadn’t_ guessed who the dad was, so fuck knew why he bothered. Standing at Yondu’s side, he can hear their faint peeps as his mate walks. The roll of Yondu’s hips detaches their mouths from his inner teats, and they mewl and squeak in animal dismay until they find them again. 

Kraglin can tell when they’ve latched on; Yondu winces, and the weight dispersed across Kraglin’s shoulder intensifies. He locks out his legs and bears it, until Yondu’s gathered himself and is ready to stand alone. And when he catches the comm-crew staring, he glares at them with the icy fury of an avalanche, long after they’ve looked away. 

He’ll tell Yondu he’s protecting his rep, if he notices. It sounds a fair sight better than “you ain’t the only one getting hormonal.” Because nowadays, whenever another person’s eyes linger on Yondu, Kraglin has to fight the urge to rip ‘em out. 

It doesn’t matter that the crews’ expressions vacillate between repulsion and morbid curiosity; Kraglin wants their collective gaze relocated far, far away. Off his mate. Off his children. Whether he’s reading them as a threat because Yondu’s mildly more vulnerable than usual – Mijo’s been sparing vitamin supplements where she can, but stocks are low, and even on extra rations Yondu’s energy wanes fast – or because some weird primitive part of him is still adapting to the fact his mate is fertile, and thus of potential interest to the siring majority aboard; Kraglin hasn’t the self-reflection to figure it out. 

His ire rises when Czar – good ol’ Czar, sturdy and dependable as a cart horse – holds a suit against Yondu’s front, clucks his tongue, and says “Don’t think it’ll fit ya just yet, boss.” 

Kraglin shoulders between them. He yanks the ancient Nova costume from his grip. “I’ll take it from here.” 

Czar blinks. Last thing he wants is a stand-off with the first mate, not with his captain _right there_ , and Czar’s not the sort of guy to absorb an insult and take it to heart – but still. Kraglin snatched the suit so fast that the shoulder plate scratched a welt on his forearm, and his eyebrows are doing that twitchy thing they do before folks spines get removed through the backs of their necks. “Um…” 

“Over here!” Isla, that angel, waves from the nav deck. “Czar! I can’t reach the top stars in the holo-read out. Think ya could bring ‘em into focus for me?” 

Yondu smooths over his belly-bulge, sighing. “We don’t need to look at them stars. All we’re focusin’ on is this system and its locals –“ 

“Emergency course,” says Isla, snappy as ever. “Y’never know when we might have to chew stardust.” 

“Then we can plot it as we go, like we always do. More fun that way…” Yondu’s voice trails off, no strength left for arguing. He shifts foot to foot, extra weight making the floorplates groan like they do when a Kronan walks by. Kraglin abandons his death-glare to watch him, and spots the longing glance at his chair. 

“Look sir,” he says, pointing at the planet through the observation deck window. “Better view from over there.” 

“View’s the same all over; issa big fuckin’ planet.” But Yondu follows his lead, and when Kraglin nudges him to take a seat he does so without complaining. 

*** 

The sweet, thrush-like chirrups from the pouch have picked up again. The twins are getting agitated. Yondu ain’t humming them a lullaby, not on Bridge, not in front of his boys; but he trails his fingers in circles, tracing the swirling navy tattoos with feather-light touch. Don’t do much for soothing, but it reminds him of Kraglin’s massages, and some of the tension slips from his knotty lats. 

“They hurtin’ ya?” Kraglin asks. He’s hovering. He does that a lot nowadays, and Yondu wishes he disliked it more. But telling the truth – _yep, and more than usual_ – would force Kraglin to deal with his own incapacity to do anything about it. Yondu tweaks his grimace into a grin, and shakes his head. 

“Nah. What did ya wanna show me on the planet?” 

Watching Kraglin scramble to think up a story to excuse himself for giving his captain a reason to sit, is as amusing as it’s convoluted. But that’s not nearly enough to drown out the sudden, sharp sting that drags across his ribs as if he’s been slit side-to-side by an invisible knife. 

When Yondu feels blood squish beneath the jacket, his first thought is _not again_. His second is pure terror. He rips it open without a care for the crew on every side – Kraglin’ll butcher any who stare. If something’s wrong; if something’s _broken_ ; if the twins are hurt… 

“What’s wrong?” Kraglin’s voice, reedy and panicked, filters through the shock. “Do ya need Mijo? Fuck, fuck; thas blood. I’m callin’ Mijo…” 

Yondu lays his hand on Kraglin’s arm. 

Kraglin shuts up. 

“Look,” Yondu whispers, and Kraglin does. 

His jacket is peeled apart to the waist. He’d only unzipped to the cut, but the baby bump’s so big that it’s eased the zipper down through pressure alone. And between the jacket’s sides, like a bridge between cliff faces, runs the blood-smeared line of an open pouch. 

Kraglin heaves a sigh so deep it must erupt from his pinky-toes, deflating over the arm of the chair. “Thank the Gods,” he breathes. Then squints at the sticky, pastel blue limbs that bulge through the gap. “Oh. That’s them. That’s our kids. That’s our kids!” 

“Uh,” says Isla, sticking her hand in the air. “You guys want a moment?” 

Yondu wants a fucking drink. It’s been long enough. He smacks his skull to rest on the chairback, implant chiming like a struck bell, and smiles. Isla has raised a good point though – Yondu should scarper out of eyesight before the crew mistake his ridiculous grin for the first signs of lunacy. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Call Mijo over to my cabin, yeah? Better make sure they’re okay.” 

They are though. He knows it. He has two children; they’re beautiful and warm and _alive_ , and the shrill gibbers of their nonsense-speak are sweeter than the sound of his own heartbeat. And once Yondu and Kraglin reach their room, they can fish ‘em out, mop ‘em up, and introduce themselves properly. 

Thinking of… 

“Hey,” Yondu mutters, as Kraglin loops an arm through his and helps haul him to stand. Idiot looks damp around the eyeholes. Wuss. “What we gonna name ‘em?” 

*** 

After a long period of umming and aahing, testing different sounds and summarily dismissing each and every one, Yondu caves and calls Peter. 

“Boy!” he barks into the comm. Mijo, who’s finishing sponging pouch-slime off the second twin (and making a sour face the whole while, although she’s the sucker who chose medicine as her profession so she can stick it), frowns and shushes him. No one shushes Yondu. He fills his lungs, determined to bellow ever-louder – then his eyes alight on the other one. She buries her little face in her daddy’s stomach, snoring in fluting peeps. 

Before he realizes what’s happened, Yondu’s face has gone all soft. His insides feel squirmy, as if he’s hosting a hive of parasitic worms. That’s just in time for Peter to answer his comm. It takes him a moment to register that look, and its source – just visible through the haze at the holo-feed’s far margins. His own smile sags. “What?” he snaps. 

Thing-One’s mouth opens, foreboding, and Kraglin cranes as far away as he can get without dropping her as she begins to cry. Her brother joins in. It turns out a Centaurian’s screeches rival fingernails on blackboards, with a side-serving of disembowelled budgerigars. 

Yondu gives Peter a look. “Was gonna ask if ya had any ideas for names – so long as it ain’t after no Terran floozies…” He has to shout to be heard. Mijo and Kraglin clap their hands over their ears and groan. Yondu, more adjusted to the aching pitch, rides it out with the stubbornness of one aware that they’ll be intimate with this sound for the next few years. 

Peter isn’t so resilient. “Noisy and noisier,” he growls, and hangs up. 

*** 

Yondu can’t get enough of holding them. He knows it’s wrong. He knows it ain’t smart, and it’s doing hell for his scary space-pirate image – but he can’t help it. They’re so small, but at the same time, there’s so _much_ of them. It’s impossible to think that two whole and perfectly formed creatures emerged from his body; less still from a union of his and Kraglin’s. 

‘Perfectly formed’ is, perhaps, a little generous. They tinge pink when poked, which suggests red blood, and their eyes are white-and-brown – but their tiny bodies don’t have the slightest hint of hair, and stubby crests line their skulls front-to-back. When they yawn, they reveal (as predicted) mouthfuls of needle-sharp teeth. Yondu, cradling the girl while Kraglin rocks the snoozing boy, winces at the thought of mealtime. S’bad enough having breasts; do the brats have to _bite_ them too? 

The tissue’s gotten impossibly plumper. They’re malleable and pillowy, and regardless of the fireworks that alight whenever Kraglin fondles them (which he does at every opportunity), Yondu still thinks they’re weird: like something from a foreign source has latched onto his body. He could laugh at himself. How come a cunt’s never bothered him, but a pair of tits are enough to give him the (ha!) willies? 

Kraglin side-eyes him as he kneads his chest. “We’ll find formula,” he whispers. By this time, satisfied that none of them are gonna keel over and start twitching, Mijo’s swanned off “to do her actual job” or something of the sort. The two of them are alone – sat holding squirming bundles of baby and pondering the actuality of what they’ve done. 

Yondu mulls Kraglin’s offer, exploring swollen, sensitive areolas. The nipples stand stiffly from their dark blue rings. They moisten when he rubs them, milk close to the surface and ready to leak. Even if he did switch to bottles, it wouldn’t do much for his current predicament – and anyway, he knows mother’s milk’s the best thing for sproglets. In lieu of a _mother_ , dad-with-boobs is gonna have to make do. 

“Not thought of no names yet?” he asks. Kraglin shakes his head. “Right. I’ll keep pinging Quill…” 

“Sir,” says Kraglin, before Yondu can juggle the girl to his hip so he can stab his comm with his nose. “He’ll come round when he’s ready. For now… C’mere? I wanna see ya.” 

Yondu has never been the type to care about superficial shit – he’s fucking Kraglin, ain’t that proof enough? He’s also never been the type to give out freebies without expecting something in return. So if Kraglin’s really that desperate to look at him, tits and saggy pouch-skin and all, he’s gotta work for it. Yondu wriggles the zipper up to his throat. He does cross to Kraglin though. Moving feels odd; if he’d been off-balance when the babies filled his pouch, he’s now too light, too empty, as if he could lift his feet and float away. 

“The gravs’re still workin’?” he says, just to check. Kraglin snorts and shuffles a needless inch to the side, indicating that Yondu sit. He does. The girl rolls and chirps, dark eyelashes fluttering as she surveys this new and exciting world. When they alight on him, they widen. Yondu tells himself it’s because they’ve spotted the potential food-makers that fill out his oversized coat, but there’s a small part of him – situated where a crest once sat – that insists it’s recognition. 

He can’t turn away. 

Another part insists that he stop this. Distance himself, in case tomorrow brings about worse case scenario – or else he wakes in a cold empty bed and discovers this has all been one painfully drawn-out dream. It’s easier that way. Less dangerous. But dammit, if he’s only got twenty-four hours before pulling the stupidest heist of his life, he’s gonna make the most of them, and he’s gonna spend them with his family. 

He finds himself staring at the comm again. Course, it’d be better if all his family were here. 

*** 

Peter never calls. 

That’s okay. Ain’t like Yondu gives a shit. After the fifth time he finds himself checking his watch for messages, he decides enough is enough and refuses to care on principle. 

The reservation’s a dump. He knows before they land – and he’d barely qualified as a hunter before being exiled. But it don’t take a chieftain to realize that there’s precious few fruit-bearers among the mass of greenery and foliage, or that trees that size are gonna house mighty big critters. Nova Corps probably scouted the first habitable site which boasted an equatorial climate, then dumped the Centaurians to do their thing. Yondu’d be pissed – if he wasn’t still smarting from where the fresh bite-marks on his chest grate on the skin-tight lycra, or from Czar having awkwardly mumbled that given the suit was designed to vacuum-pack against the wearer’s body, he’d probably wind up being designated female. 

Stupid Xandarians and their stupid binary gender system. 

Of course, there’s others who wear the Nova uniform. But the Ravagers' models are from the days before the empire had engulfed those far reaches of the galactic quadrant, where reproductive systems are a lil’ more exciting than the traditional dick-and-cunt. They’re looking to avoid attention. It’s easier to roll with whatever’s insinuated – and if folks think _boobs_ before they think _shoulders_ , _muscle_ , or _lack of child-bearing hips_ (okay, so maybe Yondu could’ve saved himself a lotta pain if he’d possessed that last one), that’s their problem. 

Yondu’s snagged the only full-cover helmet of the bunch. He hopes the Nova troop stationed planetside don’t bother with the formalities: cross-checking their faces with their faked IDs. 

“Wow,” gasps Kraglin, staring all around. Visible under the visor, his mouth is drawn wide in awed delight. “There’s so many leaves.” He’s the only other person trusted to heave a twin about. As his scrawny upper body protests after a few hours, he’s fastened himself a sling. Yondu’d laugh – but he’s kinda jealous Kraglin thought of it first. 

Yondu rolls his eyes. “Yeah, this’s what a forest looks like.” 

“Oh sorry, ain’t my fault I were raised in a conurbation. Not all of us can be nature-types.” Kraglin’s lack of nature-typiness is exemplified as an overhanging branch smacks him in the face. “Ugh! Ew! Gross!” He shoves the baby at Zqo – Yondu intercepts it, not least because Zqo looks horrified at the mere concept of having to touch something as-of-yet capable solely of screeching, chirping, pooping, throwing up, and crawling at disturbing speeds, occasionally up walls (much to Kraglin’s panic and Yondu’s pride. He doesn’t know what his mate worries about – Centaurians are natural born climbers. Ain’t like they’re gonna _fall off_.) 

With a child in each arm, he can’t punch Kraglin for being a dumbass when he rips off his helmet to dislodge the centipede trapped within. He makes do with hissing – “Idiot! Ya wanna get caught?” 

Czar checks the radar. “No one showing, sir.” 

“Yeah – but the Centaurians knew where we were soon as we smacked that branch. And don’t forget, there’s gonna be a Nova outpost here as well. Bored fat-cats sent here on disciplinary, I don’t doubt. But they get one look at any of us under these helmets, and they’ll be buzzing home for reinforcements. You wanna face off an entire garrison for a bit of Centaurian gold?” 

Rebutted, Kraglin replaces the helmet. The centipede is smushed underboot. 

They’re travelling in an open-topped schooner. The solar-sails, foremast shorter than the mizzen and main, have been unfurled for several hours before they embarked, harvesting energy. Now they’ve entered dense jungle, the sails fold flush to the vessel’s deck, sturdy sun plates glimmering underfoot. It ain’t exactly military-grade. But its shallow bilge and sleek, streamlined prow mean it can slice through the trailing creepers with little effort. They whizz through groves and copses, the forest a vast cavern roofed by the canopy high above. Discounting that it’s a cruddy terraformation when compared with the lush and fertile jungle of Alpha Centaurii-IV, being surrounded by vegetation is as much of a nostalgia-trip as it is a reminder of what he’s lost. Even here, where his crest should be abuzz with the flow and pulse of life, Yondu feels only the heat, the humidity, the muggy breeze on his implant. 

The twins, however, are practically aglow. They gurgle and coo, miniature fins vibrating as they hack the biosphere. He can only imagine what they’re feeling – that perfect _oneness_ , as if you’d uploaded yourself to a soggy green mainframe. Lucky little shits. 

Yondu stomps to the seats at the rear of the ship and takes one. His arrow’s under his suit, and if he can’t unzip to feed the babies he sure as hell can’t fish it out to reassure himself that they’re not flying into this unarmed. He makes do with leaning against the bulwark, angled so the shaft digs at his spine, and hoists the boy back onto his lap when he tries to go explore. 

They’re still nameless. All of Yondu’s suggestions have been shit, mostly because Kraglin’s pronunciation is abysmal. His clicks are far too nasal, and he manages to make every word an insult to Yondu’s ears. That’s saying something. Yondu ain’t spoken Centaurian in decades – in fact, the other reason he’s so reluctant to bestow names is that his lexis has shrunk to the point where the twins would wind up being called after whatever he remembered. 

Who knows? Perhaps he’ll haul one of the elders aside after they’ve stolen what they came for; get some advice. His other avenue of assistance certainly hasn’t pulled through. 

Peter hasn’t said a word since Yondu last saw him. 

No comm-calls. No congratulations. No annoying Terran music being blasted at full volume around deck. Sure, he’d been there for the birthing, which was traumatic enough to warrant apprehension, but Yondu’d expected him to get over himself and yell at him to his face like he usually did so they could move on with their lives. 

In Yondu’s mind, it’s simple. He had one pest and a mate. He now has three pests and a mate, and is considering extending an invitation to Isla and Czar if only to even the odds. The headache from dealing with two infants and a sulking Terran is gonna require more orgasms to cure than Kraglin’s dick alone can provide. 

…Or not, given how Kraglin’s been _looking_ at everyone lately. 

On cue, Czar turns to make his next report. He finds his line of sight blocked by Kraglin – who smiles smarmily and refuses to step out of the way. Czar simply looks over his head. “Captain. We have multiple heat signatures, three kliks ahead.” 

Yondu tucks the twins under his arms. They chirp excitedly, banging their little fists on his ribs. He barges Kraglin aside without ceremony. “Show me,” he says. Things’d be easier if he could shove the brats in his pouch and free his hands. Cooler, as well. He can smell Czar’s sweat, and knows he has no right to complain; he might be regretting his full-body uniform, but those not built for the clammy climate are practically agush. Hopefully this means the Nova squad will all be dead from heatstroke. 

No such luck. The radar shows, true to Czar’s word, a huddle of bipedal life signatures. Yondu sizes them up. He hopes they’re not just oversized primates (a means of determining sentience that Peter might’ve objected to, had he been present), and thinks about how much he misses his crest. 

“Nova,” he determines eventually. There’s too few of them for a village. He nods in lieu of pointing. “Aim there. Bounce a signal ahead too; announce ourselves like civ’lized folk.” 

*** 

For once, things go in their favour; the sweat-drenched corpsman are practically somnambulant, stamping their authorization papers and not looking twice at their old-fashioned outfits. It’s a miracle the whole community ain’t been ousted by poachers. You can flog a centaurian for a pretty piece on the black-market – Yondu knows all about that. 

His teeth grit when one dials a holoscreen in the village guardhouse, declaring “Nova squad incoming, bringing new babies; two guys and three girls”. Having his arms full of baby prevents him from socking him in the face – as does the sight of the person who answers, on the other end of the line. 

”Send them over,” the Centaurian says. He’s in profile, watching something beyond the window. Clearly, he’s been here long enough not to be afraid of the star-people’s technology. He’s old and weathered looking, fin beginning to droop, but fitter than the Nova men who lounge in their midge-swarmed swivel-seats as if they’ve been moulded to them. His Xandarian is only slightly thicker than Yondu’s. Probably why he’s on guard duty. Yondu does his best not to stare at him too closely – first of his kind he’s seen since escaping the Hammer-man, but that don’t mean nothing. This man’s a stranger to him, and from the set of his jaw, he doesn’t appreciate having to communicate with finless infidels. 

Then he turns. The waxy light, filtered through a thousand slim green leaves, glints off the diamond earring that dangles from his left lobe. 

Yondu freezes. 

The seconds before the old Centaurian clicks off the screen, grunting and scowling as he hits the wrong button and briefly causes his face to swim out of focus, stretch to a lifetime. Yondu exhales once the image has fizzled to pixels, and readjusts his grip on the twins so they don’t slither to the floor. 

The guard, chewing on a tacky root – some kind of local cuisine – pushes from foot to foot, the desk chair spinning in sluggish circles. Behind the visor, Yondu’s eyes tunnel him through. He wants to ask. He has to. But there’s no way he can – not without revealing himself by the accented and decidedly unfeminine rasp of his voice. The question saturates his brain instead. _This group, are they all one tribe? Or mixed?_ Because while the old guy wore the over-the-shoulder wrap of the Ignikai people, Yondu recognizes that earring. Or rather, he remembers it. 

He remembers his father, beam as proud as Yondu ever saw it, punching sharp hooks through his lobes on the eve of his Manhood Ceremony. 

He remembers those same diamonds sitting pretty in the fist of the Hammer-man’s slave boss. 

They’d remained beautiful even as they were crushed: shimmery shards dripping from between fat white palms, tinkling on the earth like a fresh summer rain. He remembers carding through the dirt, frenzied and desperate. And he remembers the slave boss stomping on his fingers. 

The babies are a lot heavier, all of a sudden. Yondu makes sure his breathing is under control before passing the girl to Kraglin, hoisting the boy over one shoulder. His mate accepts the bundle of joy, who gums hungrily at his suit-front and whimpers when she finds no sustenance. He’s too busy slotting her wiggling limbs into the sling to notice Yondu’s gripping the boy too tight to be comfortable – until his pink mouth splits and he begins to wail. 

Yondu juggles him around to the front. The rocking and cradling process ain’t so effective without accompanying whistles, but he’s not going to risk that, not in front of the Nova corps. Thankfully, the racket is enough of an excuse for them to skim the bureaucratic crap and wave the ravagers through the perimeter fence, slamming the door as soon they’re past it. 

“Good boy,” Yondu praises, once they’re out of earshot. The baby, infinitely forgiving, claps his pudgy little hands and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oooooh... Things are coming together! This OC belongs to ClassicalTorture/fandomwho and I. Imagine Ron Perlman, but blue. You'll get to know him in the next chapter!**
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> **For now: thoughts? Feelings? What the fuck am I supposed to call the children? (They have to be Terran, because Peter will have the honor of bestowing names as soon as he gets over the fact that he's no longer and only child!)**     **Help meeee**   ********


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **We meet Farthi.**
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> **Tragically, I don't actually speak any language that uses click consonants. I spent a long time trying to work out the sounds - you'll see the results at the end!**
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The walk to the village is made in silence. Leaves twitch, unable to muster a rustle in the soupy tropical air, and the thick violet vines that droop from every overladen branch leak a foul smelling sap. Czar discovers it’s acidic the hard way.

“Hold it up until I can get the bandage around it,” snaps Isla, reeling gauze from her belt pouch. “Did you get into the cider before we came?” 

“No,” says Czar defensively, and burps. Yondu can’t really blame him. For all they know, they’re about to face off against the nasty ends of five hundred arrows; and anyway, while Czar’s brain and balance might not be stellar while tipsy, it improves his marksmanship no end. 

Yondu tunes out the bickering, as Isla ropes Zqo into assisting with Czar’s arm when Kraglin turns his nose up, and listens instead to the crunch of vegetation under their booted feet. They’re far too loud. As Yondu’s the one who decided against including forest travel in Ravager training, he can’t complain. 

Without his crest, there’s no way to read the flow of energy that swoops from tree to tree, gushing across the arched branches that conjoin overhead in a great leafy cathedral dome and pouring from root to root below. The forest canopy rears so high that an entire aerial ecosystem has formed in its upper strata. Clouds condense as rainwater evaporates off the shrub-level foliage (which still towers far over their heads), while the same process occurs on a broader scale across the entire landmass between this planet’s tropics. Yondu, head tipped up to scan for predators, traces those clouds’ white shapes and wonders what he’d see if he was more imaginative. If this is anything like Alpha Centauri-IV, they’ll deposit their load twice a day in a steamy rush, regular as a chronometer. 

“I’m boiled,” Kraglin whines, tugging at his collar. True to word, his cheeks are mottled beetroot, and there’s sweat glistening on the inside of his visor. “Can we take some of this shit off?” 

Yondu, having scoped the camera feeds from inside the Nova office, shakes his head. “Not until we’re on-site,” he says. “Was expecting us to have t’keep the gear on the whole way through, so yer lucky. Seems like the Nova Corps only keep the borders under strict watch. Centaurians don’t like cameras.” 

Kraglin’s jaw drops, like he’d like to make some comment about how Yondu’s a Centaurian too. He thinks better of it. 

Shuffling the girl to the other side his chest, he dissuades her from her second attempt to clamber up his face and does his best to restrain as many of her tiny limbs as possible. He’d suggested swaddling ‘em, but Yondu’d stared at him aghast and said Centuarians don’t like bein’ trussed up, so Kraglin had let that one go too. Now he pads to Yondu, trying to make as little sound as possible – Yondu still snorts when he treads on a twig – and walks alongside him, falling into his footsteps whenever the path narrows. 

‘Path’ is generous. It’s a crude thing, hacked by machetes – at least, the part close to the guard office is. The verdant tunnel they’re entering is of a different cut entirely. It winds more, steering around trees rather than plowing through them. Where before the green shoots were lopped and lopped and lopped again, these have been pruned and coppiced; bark crusts at the older segments, new growth melded to old with the care of a professional topiarist. The woven branches provide shelter from the vines, for which Czar is grateful, if his deflating sigh is anything to go by. He can stand upright too, his scalp bobbing several inches below the roof; that’s more than can be said for the _Eclector_ ’s cramped corridors. 

“M’guessing not all Centuarians are as short as you?” Kraglin mutters. Yondu kicks him. If his aim’s impeded by the boy tossed over his shoulder, Kraglin’s deft dodging abilities are equally hampered. Goddam babies. 

Of course, he could always let Czar hold them. That big lug could easily heft the little blighters. Kraglin, having been holding five-to-ten pounds of baby at various awkward angles for the past seven hours, is starting to feel the strain. He’d use the sling, but if she’s awake she’d only climb out. Really, it’d be safer if he hailed Czar… 

No. Kraglin hugs her tighter. That fierce bubble of possessiveness he’s only used to feeling around knives and Yondu swells to bursting point in his chest. She makes a warble Kraglin’s learnt to associate with hunger, and tiny fingers pat his cheek. Kraglin’s smile is rueful. He provides a finger, which is guided between sharp little teeth. “Sorry, darlin’. You’ll just sick it up if I feed ya while we’re walking.” 

Convincing Yondu to use the pump had been like reverse-engineering a busted oxy-generator in the middle of a cosmic storm: i.e., difficult, dangerous, and worth every adrenaline-filled moment. Kraglin’s got the bottle tucked besides his holstered gun. He hopes he only has to reach for one. So does Yondu. If they’re accosted by some wild beastie before they reach the gate, he’ll have his arrow out in milliseconds, but by then their cover will be blown and his uniform in tatters. Luckily for his group, and for any peckish predators, it doesn’t occur. 

Which means Yondu should feel relief, as he marches to the village gates. Not as if he’s about to twitch out of his skin. 

The boy, attuned to his mood, whimpers. Yondu shushes him. This ain’t nothing. He’s been to reservations before. Just not _recently_ , and not with his kids in tow, and certainly not to any that play host to a fellow Zatoan… 

Did he know Yondu’s parents? Did he know _Yondu?_ Does he remember the last days, when the village collapsed to charcoal and the badoon razed their civilization to the torched and poisoned Earth; or had he escaped beforehand, as Yondu had, saved by his own exile? 

Before his mind can trace that route further, Yondu raps on the gatehouse door. It, like the walls surrounding it, is patched together from a hollow and lightweight bamboo-like reed. It flexes under his fist, disinclined to shatter in an earthquake. From the glassless window that croaking old voice growls: “Enter.” 

“Ready?” whispers Kraglin, shuffling the girl onto his hip so he can take Yondu’s hand. Usually, Yondu’d shake him off, flip him off, and jerk him off (in that order: the latter only when there was no one but them to see). Now however, he clasps the slim gloved palm snug in his. Kraglin’s fingers burrow between his own. Yondu squeezes them for a full five seconds before he pulls away. 

“Course I am. Les’ go.” 

*** 

First thing outta the old Centaurian’s mouth is “How’re ya still alive in all that uniform crap?” 

Isla, clearing her throat, offers the explanation they’d agreed upon before departure. “Uh. It’s regulation.” 

The Centuarian snorts. The motion makes his sagging fin flop like the frills of a betta fish out of water. “’Regulations’ my ass. Alright, if ya get heatstroke, it’s yer own damn faults. Now c’mon through.” As they pass, he surveys them with undisguised contempt. It’s only the sight of the children that stops his granite frown becoming a sneer. “They the babies?” he asks Kraglin. As if they’d be anything else. Yondu, having entered the reservation ahead with his bundle secured in his arms, is too entranced by the sight of the settlement to notice as the Centaurian pushes from his rough-hewn stool and holds out his wrinkled blue arms. “Give her here then.” 

Kraglin scowls. If Czar ain’t holding his daughter, some crummy half-wild grandpa doesn’t have a prayer. He angles her away, even as she squeaks and stretches for her latest friend. 

“Uh, you… You know how to hold her?” 

The look the Centaurian gives him is unflattering, to his grizzled face and Kraglin’s intelligence alike. “I had a family.” 

Past tense. _Oh._ Suddenly awkward, Kraglin swallows and looks to Yondu for guidance. He finds his captain staring at the domed structures that constitue the encampment. Their foundations are mulched shallowly into the marshy earth. They’re small and semi-spherical, stitched from tanned hide and bark strippings, and they stuff the settlement like molars in a hyperdontic mouth. 

The residents have evidentally been warned of their impending arrival. A small crowd has gathered on the furthest reaches of the clearing directly behind the gates: men and women of varying builds and ages, who stand with arms folded and glares unanimous, a sea of hostile red and blue. With their crests rearing high above their heads and their bodies clothed in a simple over-the-shoulder wrap, reminiscent of the Scottish kilt-thingies Peter had once brought from a Terran souvenir stall at an extortionate price, they look proud and fey, a clan belonging more to the forests than the stars. Their village is compact rather than sprawling. But there’s still enough space between the huts for children to run. Forbidden from approaching the strangers, the juveniles peek around the legs of the nearest adults before losing interest and scampering off to play hopscotch in the dirt. The musical jangle of their clicks rings dissonant, at odds with the inimical atmosphere as the adults, infinitely less trusting, stroke the yaka arrows in their hip-quivers. 

They’re the old-fashioned sort, Yondu’s glad to see. No mechanical alterations. Means whistling will only alter direction rather than velocity. Whereas Yondu can have his arrow hover, dart, accelerate and skid to a sudden halt inches from Quill’s nose when he’s annoyed him, this sort just falls out the air once their momentum is spent. 

Not that that makes them less dangerous, in the hands of trained Centaurian hunters. 

When Yondu steps forwards, a low and warning hiss ripples through the gathered Centaurians. They display their yellowed fangs. Bows jostle with their fins for space as they form a protective wall, blocking the rest of the village from sight. The boy begins to cry. His face is squishy with fear, attuned to the emotions being projected across the chasmic five steps of mud and root between the village and the Ravagers in disguise. Instantly, a man of the tribe steps forwards, clicking soothingly. He’s younger than Yondu. His pouch is well-stretched from use, its lip hanging halfway down his abdomen. It swings as he walks, chirping to the boy in a sweet melody that Yondu recognizes even if the language is foreign. 

_Run though the forest, child, run and dance and play_

  
_Laugh at the Hammerman, scare him away_

Of course the Ignokai have their own variant. That song seems destined to follow him wherever he goes. It did their race little good the first time the Hammerman came, and although there had never been a second Great Enslavement, it had been equally successful in repelling the badoon ships when they torched Centauri-IV’s skies. 

The man pauses in front of him, half turned to one side like a deer. He must be a village-sitter rather than a hunter. There’s no such thing as _hierarchy_ ; all roles assumed by different Centaurians on their manhood or womanhood days are recognized as necessary to the smooth operation of civilized life. But Yondu’s time as a Ravager has taught him to look on anyone who chooses to lounge about and bear pups with disdain. When the man reaches out, squinting at his opaque visor in the hopes of making eye contact, Yondu turns so his fingers skate his shoulder rather than the boy’s smooth skull. 

Like hell is someone _soft_ gonna touch his son. What if he’s contagious? 

The boy’s cries continue, albeit gentled by the song into a foxlike squeal. His wide pink-brown eyes glimmer wetly at the Centaurian before he buries his face in Yondu’s neck. Yondu, had he not been masked, would have smirked in victory. But then he turns and sees Kraglin awkwardly shuffling his feet while the old Zatoan from the front gate sways towards him, Yondu’s daughter on his hip. 

Yondu sees red. “Put her down,” he says. 

So much for staying silent. But there’s no cameras here, none of the curious mechanical eyes that Yondu remembers from his trips to the reservations around Xandar’s equator. He supposes the novelty of a rare-species zoo wears thin this far from the mainland. Cameras would cost more to ship in and repair than they’d bring through watcher-revenue. The old Centaurian assesses him with a sour and withered sneer. “She ain’t your kind, boy. Best not get attached.” 

If only he knew. Kraglin, sensing Yondu’s mood, hurries to keep pace with him, snapping his fingers for the other Ravagers to fall in line. “Uh, per’aps ya could give her back t’me now…” 

“Nah. Don’t think I will.” The man glances over Yondu’s shoulder. Clacking his tongue off his teeth, he jabbers in rapidfire Ignokai, securing the girl one-armed so he can point in adamant anger at the gathered village. Yondu looks around. He sucks breath to whistle when he sees how close the other man has crept. But no attempt to snatch and run is made: caught, the Centaurian glowers at him, sheepish and hateful in equal measure. He chucks his boy under the chin before stalking sullenly away. Yondu lets his air release in increments. “S’too much t’hope any of ya speak our language?” the elder asks. Kraglin opens and closes empty fists behind him, and the Ravagers rest their hands on their weapons, casual but watchful. 

Yondu swallows. “No,” he says. 

“Course not.” The Centaurian lopes over, his old muscle wire-tight to his bones. Feeble sunlight filters through the brush, highlighting each wrinkle, each mossy tooth, each old scar. The diamond in his ear is dull in comparison to the bioluminescent glow of his eyes. “Heaven forbid _your kind_ bother to learn ‘bout us. Keepin’ us alive’s all well an’ good, but there’s a difference between _surviving_ ’ and _livin_ ’, one I hope your Anthos-forsaken race finds out. Now, if I was you, I’d leave the lil’ one and walk away. Jurisdiction in the village is ours – and it’d be mighty easy for us to say you’d posed a threat, what with there being no cameras no more. Heck, we could chuck ya into the woods! I’d give ya three days before ya run into something nastier than us. City scum like you? There ain’t no way you’re finding your way back once you’ve lost the path.” 

Another villager speaks up: a woman. Her voice holds authority. Yondu doesn’t need to speak Ignokai to know she’s ordering the old guy to back down. She must be the elected chief. Chosen to enact law, to dispense punishment and have final word in every argument – so it’s a shock when the Zatoan does the inconsiderable, and ignores her. 

Yondu’s again left to wonder what his place is among this foreign tribe. Traditionally, Zatoan and Ignokai don’t see eye-to-eye. Even on a forestry planet with near infinite natural resources, territories overlapped and wars were waged. But at least they’re Habaktu. Customs matter little when you worship the same God, and however nebulous this guy’s place in their group, living among strangers beats being torn apart by infidel Akuun. 

“Didn’t ya hear me?” he jeers, stepping close enough that his chest brushes Yondu’s. “That helmet too thick t’hear through, or is it just yer skull?” Yondu has to struggle to pin the wriggling boy as he spies his sister within grabbing distance. She, copying, is restrained with practiced ease. Yondu’s left grappling with his squirming armful like he’s lassoing a Jthoan slimeworm. But he achieves the same end, and that’s all that matters. 

This close, the old Centaurian smells musty: rotting wood and dried herbs and the undersides of toadstools. Navy tattoos stripe his stubbled cheeks. They compress as he repeats himself. “I said, put the boy down. And walk. Away.” 

Like hell. 

His craggy face hovers above Yondu’s own (Kraglin was right about heights, the jackass). Yondu would’ve punched him a while back, except that his daughter’s as good as hostage. 

“Nah,” he echoes. “Don’t think I will.” 

There’s a lull as the Centaurian’s eyes narrow. He must hear the similarity in their accents. “You mockin’ me, _Nova_?” 

“What’chu gonna do about it?” 

“Yondu…” murmurs Kraglin. He flashes him finger-signs – _This, Not, Plan._

Damn right it isn’t. But Yondu likes to improvise. 

“Y’know,” he says. “I don’t reckon this place’s gonna be good for the brats’ upbringin’. Perhaps I oughta take ‘em elsewhere. S’my duty as an officer, an’ all.” 

“Duty? _Duty?_ What do _Nova_ know about _Duty?_ ” He looks ready to start spitting. But he keeps his grip on the girl light and gentle, so she only whimpers at the vitriol in his voice and not from pain. Yondu’s too incensed to notice. 

“Nova, huh? I’ll show ya _Nova…_ ” 

“Yondu!” Kraglin darts forwards, making to grab his wrist. He’s too late. Yondu yanks off his helmet and lobs it at the Centaurian’s head. Luckily, his aim’s not awful at this range – the Kevlar-enforced plastic rebounds away from his daughter, whose expression instantly uncrumples and is replaced with utter delight. Her speech is baby-gabble, but Yondu gets the gist. _Again, again_. 

“Good girl,” he grunts. Scrapes sweat from behind his ears with a grimace. “Fuck. S’hot in there.” 

“Sir…” says Kraglin softly. 

“Aw, shuddit. Let’s get on with this. Might as well strip off, boys.” Isla coughs; Yondu rolls his eyes. “And girls.” 

Meanwhile, the Centaurian rubs his temples and groans. Yondu’s expecting an attack – his kind don’t do so well when it comes to taking insults lying down – but he’s not expecting it to come from the rear. A rustle is all the warning he gets, along with the sudden freeze of Czar, Kraglin, Isla and Zqo, in the midst of shimmying their form-fitting suits to their waists. Yondu turns slowly, son whimpering against his shoulder. He finds the entire adult population of the village bristling with drawn bows. Their eyes are all on him. 

He’d put his hands up, if there wasn’t an infant in them. As it is, he settles for a lazy grin. “Was expectin’ a warmer welcome.” 

“You welcome not!” The woman who spoke earlier strides a step before her peers. She’s smaller than Yondu – fucking _finally_. With the exception of her fin, that is, but Yondu’s long since decided they don’t count. Looks like she speaks Common after all. 

“Why not?” he drawls, sparing a hand to show his crew behind his back. It’s clenched into a tight fist. _Hold_. “Ain’t I one of ya?” 

“You one of us not!” Spittle laces her lips. Yondu’s never seen anyone so furious, excepting that time he and Peter played that prank on the Gravarian Duchess. “You never one of us! I know not who you are, but I see _what_ you are, you…” She cuts off in a spiel of vehement clicks that have some of the less warrior-looking of the tribe gasping and looking for youngsters whose ears are in need of covering. 

Yondu rootles a pinky around his earhole. “Uh, sorry. Didn’t quite catch that.” 

The woman repeats it, angrier still. Yondu’s more than willing to keep baiting her, but before he can loose his next barb the Centaurian holding his daughter speaks. “It ain’t translatable. That word, that concept… S’too much for Common. But perhaps this…” 

Yondu’s heard sailors mouth off from here to Betelgeux. A cuss has never made the sparse hair on his body feel as if it’s shrivelling to ash. _Finless. Dead-walking. Isolate. Taboo. Cursed. Outcast._ Too many nuances, just as he’d claimed; you’d need a thesaurus to hold them all. Yondu’s scar aches for the first time in years. “What did you call me?” he croaks. 

“You understood?” The old Centaurian man’s too close all of a sudden. Yondu can count the creases around his mouth, which is trembling oddly, as if the muscles have contracted to the point of spasmic cramp with the effort to keep from breaking into a smile. “Fuck, I knew it. I’ve hoped, I’ve _prayed_ …” The hand not engrossed in preventing the girl from wriggling to freedom is, for some reason, brushing Yondu’s jaw. He lurches away, snarling. 

“ _What?_ ” First this a-hole dares hold his child, then he calls him… _that_ , then he cups his cheek like they’re on the cover of some cheesy romance holovid flick? He sees Kraglin simmering in the background, and reasserts his handsign. Can’t have the idiot getting himself shot again. Mijo’d never let him hear the end of it. 

The Centaurian doesn’t look prone to violence though. Just… wistful. So incredibly wistful, withered and aged… It strikes Yondu that he’ll die alone, despite being surrounded by his kind. 

But who cares? 

Yondu’s learnt the hard way that sympathy gets you poor or dead. If he doesn’t spare it for the limpid-eyed waifs who float through Knowhere’s grotty sinuses, begging pennies where they can and stealing when they can’t, he can face some miserable geriatric Zatoan without coming over all mushy. So he thinks. 

Then the Zatoan says a name. “ʄoǁi Uɗonqχʼ?” 

Yondu shuts his eyes. Just briefly. Not enough to endanger himself; he doesn’t lose awareness of his surroundings, or the threat posed by the arrowshafts aimed at his back. He closes them only for the time it takes for those achingly familiar click-formulations to work from brain to tongue, so he can make his reply. “Nʛ, ʄonɗ Uɗonqχ ǃ - ʄoǁi Uɗonqχ ǃ ʈʂʼcʎ̝̥ iǂ. Uh, I mean… Um, _iǀ_. Was. He _was_ my father.” 

The Centaurian abruptly turns away. Yondu, left blinking, wonders if he’s somehow caused offence – then pushes the stupid flare of hurt aside and decides he doesn’t care. What does it matter? He’s gonna rob the lot of ‘em anyhow. 

The Centaurian deposits his load with her daddy. She squeals and latches onto his unzipped collar, gumming the sweat-soggy material until Kraglin replaces it with the bottle’s rubbery teat, glaring at her courier in sullen thanks. But for once, Yondu’s eyes aren’t affixed to them. His son neither, who rests secure in his own arms. His attention’s on the man who’s just walked the length of the No Man’s Land to gather Yondu into an unreciprocated hug, one-armed so as not to squish the baby, and ducked his forehead to scrape Yondu’s own in a gesture of familial trust. “ʄonɗ Uɗonqχ. My name is fʼarθʼi. I am… I _was_ , your father’s sworn hunt-brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **fʼarθʼi = Farthi, with like soft breathy clicks after the 'ff' sounds.**
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> **ʄoǁi Uɗonqχ (Htyotli Utdton-BIG CLICK)= Yotli Udonta (Udonta-senior)**
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> **ʄonɗ Uɗonqχ (Htyondtuh Utdton-BIG CLICK)= our fave lil shit**
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> **Nʛ (nuh-ghkah)= 'no'**
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> **ǃ (sorta a big horsey click) = I/me/my**
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> **ʈʂʼcʎ̝̥ (kinda like chuh-kah) = father**
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> **iǂ (ih-ngkah, idk) = is.**
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>  ** **iǀ (i-ncha) = was.****
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>  ** ** **I love languages but literally the only things I'm any good at other than English are Middle English, Old English, and Old Norse, which are fuck-all useful to anyone (with the exceptions of Icelanders).******
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>  ** ** ** **THIS WAS WRITTEN SO FAST I hope you all enjoyed it. Do tell me about mistakes. I hate Finals. Why can't life just leave me to write, draw, and edit in peace??********
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>  ** ** ** ** **Dump me your comments yo**********
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	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry it's later than normal... Stress either sends me into writing-overdrive or drawing-overdrive; it's recently been the latter.**

Yondu blinks. He shrugs from Farthi’s tight clutch – man’s holding him like he expects him to evaporate when he loses contact. He turns to face the crowd, nodding for Kraglin to take the boy so he can terrorize without the handicap of a baby on his hip.

“That’s cute n’all, but I ain’t here for a family reunion. Now, all of y’all are gonna want to listen up, an’ listen good. Y’see, while I’m guessing ya don’t know who I am because you ain’t shot me yet, lemme tell ya this: you don’t gotta be afraid of the starwalkers. The starwalkers are afraid of _me_.” 

It’s an impressive speech. It would be moreso, if they spoke more than five words of any translator-compatible language. The chief, impatient, glares expectantly at Farthi. But he’s in a daze. He stares at Yondu like he’s the hypnotic churn of water under a fall, and the expression in his eyes is far, far too soft for any self-respecting space-pirate admiral to be comfortable with. “Quit gawkin’!” he snaps. “I speak, you translate. Gottit?” 

There’s little Farthi can do but nod. Yondu repeats himself, scowling as he strives to emulate the tone of his initial address. It just ain’t as _effective_ second time through. 

Farthi, identifying the underlying threat, struggles to find words. When they emerge, they’re hesitant. “ʄonɗ. I do not understand. What are you saying – are you not Nova Corps?” 

Yondu puffs up. “No shit. We’re Ravagers, an’ we’re here to rob ya!” There’s a long silence. If Yondu’s eyebrows lowered any further, they’d be scraping his cheekbones. “…I notice you ain’t translatin’ yet.” 

“Nʛ,” Farthi says, shaking his head. Then again, more emphatically. “Nʛ! We’re yer own kind, boy! Ya can’t –“ 

“fʼarθʼi!” The hunters’ bows have yet to dip from their notched-and-drawn ready. Foremost among them belongs to the chief; its yaka-hewn tip aims directly at Yondu’s heart. Someone don’t like being in the dark. Yondu would give her the finger, except the Ignokai are a touchy people, and if she recognizes the insult she’ll fire on principle. 

“Go on then,” he growls. “Talk.” 

Farthi’s head continues side to side toss, fast enough to ripple his withered fin. “No – there’s five of you! They’ll kill ya!” He’s right. Expecting a centaurian settlement – especially a half-feral centaurian settlement, scrabbling for life on a planet scarcely more habitable to hunter-gatherers than frickin’ _Morag_ – to lay down their weapons, would be a step beyond ignorance into suicidal stupidity. These poor a-holes have been fighting too long to give up now. 

Yondu assesses them. His gaze is cold and clinical: he scans for those most likely to urge an assault: those who are jittery, liable to spook. It ain’t hard. He feels like it oughta be – like he oughta be struggling to envision himself as separate. But the unanimity of their threat display makes it easier to abstract himself. He’s the Other; the traitor; the outcast. He can live with that if it means getting his gold. 

“Well,” he says to Farthi. “Tell ‘em about the massive fuckin’ ship I got in orbit, ready to call down an orbital strike on my command.” _That_ makes him start. Yondu grins. “Oh yeah. If ya kill us, we give the order. If ya let us go but don’t fork over every damn piece of booty in this sorry shithole, we give the order. If ya don’t do what I say, I’ll prob’ly give the order outta spite. Capisce?” 

Farthi’s expression twists through five stages of grief: shock, denial, anger, pleading, and sorrow. It settles on exquisite betrayal. 

Yondu’s sure to meet it with a sneer. What, he’s supposed to _care_ that this old dude went through some weird masculinization ritual with his dearly departed pops? Huh. Not likely. Where’d he been when Yondu got frogmarched to an outgoing merchant vessel and ordered never to return, on pain of execution? Yondu don’t owe him shit. 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. 

Kraglin, overladen with their offspring, nudges Isla with his knee and mumbles something in her ear. Next moment she slinks to Farthi’s side, slinging an arm around his wrinkled waist and casually pressing a blade one stab away from his liver. It’s hidden from the Centaurians in their battle formation – Yondu can only spy a glimmer of it. But the chill of the steel makes Farthi’s teeth clack. “C’mon, gramps,” says Isla cheerfully. She wriggles the knife until it nicks. “Ain’tchu got some translatin’ t’do?” 

Farthi spares Yondu one last glance, torn between hurt and hateful. Then he obeys. 

*** 

As expected, it doesn’t go well. No translator is needed to understand the harsh spit of consonants that rattle up the chief’s throat like seed pods in a gourd. She’s calling bullshit. Yondu smirks. He’d hoped she’d do that. 

“Alright, Horuz,” he says into his comm. “Klik to our north. Y’know what to do.” That way’ll have the least chance of being spotted from the barracks. Every sensor in the vicinity will go haywire, of course – but the techies have patched a decent mock-up of planetary rad-reads. It’ll be broadcasted onto all screens in a target radius as soon as the missile fires, and the Nova corpsman will put alterations in their holoscreem format down to temporary glitching. That or heat-induced hallucination. 

“Yessir,” comes Horuz’s grim reply. 

Yondu shoots his men (and women; thank you Isla) a deft handsign. “Incoming,” he says to Farthi, and throws the Chief an exuberant wink. 

On cue, the sky splits open. 

Or rather, the canopy does. But Yondu imagines the clouds above it: shredded into a tornado by the passing white-hot beam. This is almost as impressive. The entire forest quivers in silence between the canopy’s explosion and the slam of bolt into earth. It lasts a millisecond, a half-blink, a handful of planck times stitched crudely by quantum gravity – yet they watch it carve the air like a chisel into a woodseam, adrenaline punching harder than heroin. 

The valley rolls with thunder. Smouldered shards of twig and leaf pepper the sky, trailing ash. They sizzle when they smack vegetation, fire lighting an instant before being doused by the moist rainforest air. Birds – or some form of flying critter: they look mammalian but Yondu’s no expert – erupt from the undergrowth. Their screeches, and the wails of those too slow to escape, linger long after the initial rumble has dissipated. 

Although perhaps that’s just tinnitus. Yondu bangs the side of his head until his hearing returns, and treats the Centaurians – most of whom have collapsed to their knees, bows flung aside – to a cheeky grin. 

The chief is the only one to have retained her grip on her weapon. Her people crowd around her, cowering. Yondu would find their wailing pathetic if he hadn’t known they’d suffered orbital strikes before. She mutters quiet reassurances as Yondu stares down her arrowshaft. Then, gradually, it lowers. 

Spitting at his feet, the Chief of the Ignokai turns her back and gathers as many of her people as she can into her arms. 

Yondu claps his hands. “Right,” he says to Farthi. “Les’ get on with this. I dunno about you lot” – this to the Ravagers – “but I’m sick of the smell of mud.” 

Farthi reaches to a decision. He nods, tight and small, and doesn’t meet Yondu’s eyes as he steps around him. “It’s riches you’re after?” he inquires. Yondu’s nod is all too eager. “This way then,” Farthi says, and beckons them forwards. 

They tread among the villagers like men among ghosts. Their fear is tangible. They cringe as they pass, crests pulsing in conjunction with their racing hearts, and hiss prayers under their breath. Yondu, doing his utmost not to feel disturbed as he tramps through the ranks, every footstep met by a collective flinch, focusses on the word he recognizes. 

_Ah’nθos_. 

It’s uttered over and over, offset by mournful ululations and cries for their young – who stumble from their huts, tear-streaked and terrified. _Ah’nθos,_ chant the adults, as they clasp their children close. As if that’d do ‘em any good should the threatened airstrike fall. _Ah’nθos_ , whimper the children, small fins bunching under the adults’ chins as they bury into their embrace. _Anthos have mercy_. 

The Zatoan and Ignokai clans emerged from a single ancestral tribe. They were divided by trivialities of their worship rather than its roots, and both strands of _Habaktu_ knew that Anthos favoured punishing the sacreligious via lightning bolt. This whole scenario must strike struck close to home – figuratively as well as literally. And, of course, it’s a delightful reminder of that time Badoon ships materialized over the mountains. Hunted them. Toyed with them. Incinerated their homeworld with the callous ease of those who saw their victims as less-than-beasts… 

Yondu _hates_ PTSD. 

That shit makes folks mighty unpredictable, and he’s kinda relying on their fear to stop them being butchered. All it’ll take is one person to fall so far into that terror where they decide death is inevitable and take it upon themselves to bring the Ravagers down with them, and the rest may well follow suit. 

Still, fretting about it’s worse than useless. He concentrates on the ridiculous waggle of Farthi’s fin as he walks. Sawing his off was the kindest thing an Asgardian’s ever done for him. They pass the last of the amassed villagers – who make themselves as small as seven-foot blue and red folks can – and head for a hut at the village centre. It’s built more sturdily than the others, although it’s just as ugly. This must be the chief’s humble abode. 

“In here,” says Farthi. “This is where we store what could be salvaged from our home. It’s all that’s left of it, after the Bright Days. We are few, but what we retain, we prize.” He doesn’t speak with any expectation that Yondu should be overcome with sympathy, strip off his Novasuit in favour of a loincloth and order his army to leave him where he belongs, with these: the last of his kind. But Yondu hears it anyway, and bristles. He shoves Farthi to one side. He rocks with the blow, standing too sturdily to be moved, and follows on his heels – taking second position from Kraglin, who juggles the babies until they aren’t obscuring his glare. 

“Uh, I can, if ya want…” Czar starts, gesturing at the boy (who’s venturing up Kraglin’s shoulder towards that tantalizing peak of his Mohawk, without care for eyes or nostrils gouged by little fingers along the way). 

The glare turns on him. It’s potent, despite the blue foot squishing Kraglin’s cheek. Czar wisely shuts his mouth. 

*** 

Pinch enough of the shiny stuff, cajole his crew into seeing his babies as the benefactors, and there won’t be a soul aboard who’ll dare mutter dangerous questions about ‘softness’ and ‘suitability to captain’ in the mess. Foolproof, right? 

Only problem is, there’s precious little ‘shiny stuff’ to be found. 

Yondu grabs the cracked heirlooms off the alter, shaking them in a furious fist when more cease to materialize. “This is it?” 

They’re wooden, for a start. Worthless. And even creeps like the Collector who obsess over lost cultures won’t fork out the kind of money Yondu needs for a single chest’s worth of clunky necklaces and ankle-bracelets. He’d promised his men _gold_ , dammit. There’s sympathy under Farthi’s scowl, which makes things all the worse. He must’ve sensed Yondu’s desperation. “The Ignokai couldn’t save much. The badoon came too fast. They were more concerned with the lives of their children…” 

“But the gold!” Yondu squeezes the charred beads until they crack. “What about the gold?” 

Now Farthi’s confused. “What gold?” 

“The gold – y’know, Ceremonial shit. Wouldn’t they have saved that?” 

“Why would we wear gold? Zatoan, Ignokai – besides our mating earrings, we wear the gifts of the forest.” He actually looks offended. “We ain’t _animals_. Why churn through the earth for a bit of metal that dents easy as putty?” 

“But I remember –“ Yondu cuts himself off. 

He doesn’t. 

He _doesn’t_ remember. 

Oh yeah, he’d been decked out pretty in jewels and bangles, but that was _after_ , wasn’t it? In the fourteen years before his exile, he’d never seen a Centaurian who’d toted more accessories than the obligatory piercings and bow. Especially the hunters; their occupation relied on them being able to creep through the undergrowth without jangling adornments giving them away. Yes, there’d been grand temples to Anthos, but even they used natural ornamentation: trees trained into spirals, vines knotted and dried into patterned wall-hangings. 

How could he have been so stupid? It’s not the Centaurians they need to rob. 

“Shit,” he mutters. 

“Captain?” Kraglin. He moves tentatively through the dim hovel, lifting his feet to keep from tripping on the rug. Their children coo in his arms – or the girl does; the boy has long since conquered Mount Mohawk and its clinging to his crown like an octopus. “Everything okay?” 

“No,” says Yondu simply. Now what? What the fuck’s he supposed to do? This mission’s already operating at a loss, despite that they’ve not lost a single man. They’ve ventured far from the starways, where the hunting is good and the prey fat and wealthy. There’s no nearby settlements sleazy enough that they can make up the deficit in easy jobs. Usually, his crew weathers the occasional botched undertaking. Yondu’s profits far exceed his failures. But there’s already unrest among them, what with the addition of two new children. Peter had been bad enough… 

His men assess the meagre pickings. “Well, this sucks,” sums Isla. Czar grumpily crushes a glossy wooden pendant between finger and thumb, oblivious to Farthi’s scowl. 

“Now what?” he asks Yondu. They turn to him, expectant. But right now there’s no back-up plan. Yondu, not meeting their eyes, stalks over to Kraglin and liberates his scalp from his son’s tight grip. Kraglin’s grateful, but his mouth’s crinkly with tension – he’s a fair hand at reading situations, and he knows how crappy this one is. For Yondu. For him. For their family. 

“We could always sell ‘em as slaves,” says Zqo. 

Had Yondu been holding anything other than a baby, he’d have dropped it. He makes do for shoving it at Farthi, trusting he won’t do the same – and ignoring Kraglin’s snort of protest. Krags can suck it up. If things get rowdy, keeping one brat from going walkies (crawlies, really) will be task enough. 

Then he grabs Zqo by the neck and hauls her halfway up the wall. 

“Holy shit! Captain!” Czar could’ve easily wrenched him away from her. But he dithers with his hand an inch off Yondu’s shoulder, not wanting to earn a whistle. Isla takes it upon herself to settle things. She elbows Czar from her path, and pokes Yondu sharply in the ribs. 

“Oi, boss. That’s enough, don’tcha think?” 

Yondu, eyes narrow and coldly furious, keeps Zqo pinned and choking a half-minute longer, just to show he can. Then, once her purple scaly ears are twitching, breasts heaving as she fights for air, he drops her. 

Zqo crumples to her knees. She glares at him, somewhere between hate and fear, and coughs spit over the churned dirt floor. 

Isla helps her up, more gently than she deserves. “An’ you, missy? Shut yer face. You’re new to the Bridge, and you better keep yer mouth shut until ya figure out how things work.” 

Zqo pinches her lips closed and nods. She’s a clever girl though – Yondu wouldn’t let her into his command circle if she wasn’t. The way she’s watching him is entirely too curious, piecing together the scraps of information afforded to her, the jigsaw forming in her mind… Yondu, growling, stalks past her. He bats the cloth over the doorway aside and reintroduces himself to the sultry forest air. 

“This’s a bust,” he mutters into his comm. “Quill. Get us outta here.” 

Horuz’s on cannons – keeps the gun-happy idiot satisfied, and Yondu’ll admit he’s decent at aiming algorithms. That leaves Peter to man the evacuation shuttle. It’s a vital job, and not even Quill’s latest batch of the grumps will keep him from fulfilling it. 

So Yondu hopes. 

“Quill?” he says again, louder. Sneers at the chieftain, who glowers back from where she’s comforting her own sobbing toddler. “You snoozing, boy?” 

There’s a drawn-out crackle of static, which Yondu’s brain fills with the paranoid certainty that the shuttle and open exit hatch were too much of a temptation for Quill to bear. Sure, he knows the day’s coming – but can’t Quill wait to blaze his trail across the stars until Yondu’s on his goddam galleon, in prime position to pursue? 

Then – “Here,” Quill mutters. He doesn’t sound happy about it. 

That makes two of them. “Well, quit yer lazing and get down here! Ain’t gonna be long before the Nova realize _something_ ’s up an’ come investigate. I’d like t’be long gone by then.” As far as the corpsmen know, this is a simple drop off. Dump brats, take a quick tour of the local culture, make a loo-stop, and fuck off back to their posts. Their prolonged absence will be shifting from ‘odd’ to ‘suspicious’ right about now. 

“Alright, alright! Christ. Calm your t-“ 

“Don’tchu fucking say it.” 

Peter’s reply is the gunning of engines. That’s all Yondu needs to know. He snaps the comm off. 

He gazes up at the battered canopy. Torn fronds dangle, forlorn and ragged, and the hole left from the orbital strike congeals with mist. The Ravagers come stand besides him, Zqo still rubbing her throat. Farthi and Kraglin have a child each. They wait in a tight ring, wary of assault, as the familiar throb of M-ship rockets swells in a grinding crescendo. The M-ship enters through the hole, as they’d planned. Peter’s face is barely visible through the fogged glass. Somehow, Yondu can tell he’s pissed off even at this distance. 

Well, ain’t they all. 

The M-ship lands, amid the terror-stricken whimpers of the Ignokai clan. Its hatch peels open, and Peter swaggers from the cockpit, looking every bit the space-pirate ruffian Yondu’s trained him to be. “You lot gonna hang about all day?” he drawls. Then squints at Farthi. “Uh. You seem to have picked up an extra.” 

Yondu looks at Farthi. Farthi looks at Yondu. Yondu raises an eyebrow. Farthi raises one back, and juggles the boy easily from one arm to the other when he scrabbles for Peter with a squeaky greeting. 

“Yeah,” says Yondu, ignoring the increasingly frantic shake of Kraglin’s head as he battles to keep their daughter restrained. “Meet your sort-of grandpa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oh dear.**
> 
>  
> 
> **This was edited OH SO QUICKLY, as all my Finals-term updates will be! :sobs: Oh well, I think it's alright.**
> 
> **Thoughts? Fears? Leave me a comment!! ((And ClassicalTorture loooooook it's that scene we talked about))**
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oh god, this was written so fast... Nevertheless, enjoy.**

Farthi settles in.

‘Settles’ is a misnomer. Why should a proud Centaurian warrior bother moulding himself to fit the space-pirate life, when he could mould the space-pirate life to fit him? Last time Yondu saw him he was lounging on a chair in the canteen, whistling his arrow through the smoke rings Horuz blew. 

Had Shorro's language been compatible with Xandarian translator-implants, his lamentations of “Oh God, now there’s two of them” would've resonated around the galley, as he wrung his squidgy, tentacular hands. 

*** 

“Y’know,” says Kraglin. “I didn’t exactly have the nicest time as a kid.” 

“Huh,” says Yondu, trying to sound interested. He succeeds in wrangling the bottle nub into the boy’s mouth, only to squeeze too hard and make his cheeks bulge with milk. The girl, snoring kittenish in his pouch, wriggles onto her side (and headbutts his intestines along the way, but Yondu’s more than used to that). 

“Yeah.” Kraglin, shifting foot to foot, nervously rubs the stubbly prickles on his upper lip. “Y’know. Street brat and all. Didn’t have no parents, didn’t have no real friends…” 

“You had a gang,” Yondu reminds him. 

Kraglin hoists a thin shoulder. “A gang who’da sold me out for a bite to eat. Weren’t friends. Not like I got now. I’m just sayin’, if ya ever wanna _talk_ about stuff…” 

“Sell you out, huh? What makes ya think I wouldn’t dump ya at the nearest Nova station if yer bounty weren’t worth less than the cost of fuel?” 

Kraglin’s bounty has always been a sore spot. Given his job description’s pretty much ‘stay in Yondu’s shadow; gut anyone he misses’, its lowness is understandable – but being beneath Horuz is a blow to the pride of any first mate. Kraglin tells anyone dumb enough to bring it up he’s just better at not getting caught. If Yondu was a comforting guy, he’d also remind him that Horuz’s been a Ravager longer than either of them: plenty of time to put a hefty price on his head. He’d also say that Kraglin specializes in stealth operations – in and out, unseen and unrecorded, no trace of their presence bar the absence of whatever they’ve stolen. He doesn’t exactly have time to drop a signature card. In fact, Yondu’s probably accrued more than his fair share of units by profiting off the work of his second. 

But Yondu’s not a comforting guy, so he says none of it. 

Kraglin flips him the bird, scowling. “Ass.” 

“You love this ass.” 

“Not when it’s being a cunt.” 

Yondu leers. “You love this cunt too.” 

Kraglin doesn’t deny it. “No word from Peter yet?” he asks, segueing from his least favorite topic to Yondu’s. Yondu snorts. He pats his boy’s back until he belches – least he doesn’t puke and make all of Yondu’s feeding efforts redundant. 

Zatoan brats never wore clothes until they were old enough to walk upright rather than crawl or climb. But the _Eclector_ ’s nippy; if Yondu requires several layers plus the heating on full-blast in his chambers, by all rights the brats should be bundled up like Inuits. But Yondu’d sent Kraglin on an errand to the quartermaster, and whether through cajoling, threatening, or trading of wages, Kraglin had returned with a set of high-grade thermals. Now the brats have matching jumpsuits they can be poured into in their waking hours. Proper cute they look. Yondu would stitch names on ‘em – because he ain’t that good at telling kids apart, and his button-nosed, wide-eyed sproglets are practically identical anyway. Only… he has yet to figure those names out. 

“Quill can go fuck himself,” he growls, and ignores Kraglin’s sigh. 

*** 

Quill is not currently fucking himself. 

Perhaps he ought to. Orgasms do wonders for headaches. But as this headache stems not from stress, anger-at-a-certain-blue-jerkwad, or an oncoming bout of the dreaded Xandarian flu, but rather from the bash it’s just been given against the tube-bound walls of the _Eclector_ ’s main freight tunnel, he doubts it’d help. 

“Ow! What the heck? Who d’you think you are?” Scrambling to his feet, he sizes up the a-hole that shoved him – some grotty Shi’ar with mould growing between his hair-tendrils. A nobody. Peter dons his best _I’m second mate and you shouldn’t mess with me_ face. For some reason, it has minimal effect. The Shi’ar scoffs. The sound’s harsh, mucus-wet and crackling, rage enhanced by the steep pull of his tattooed eyebrows. 

“Pissed off, that’s what I am,” he snarls. 

Strange. Peter doesn’t remember sleeping with any Shi’ar women recently. He scrapes his fingertips along his pistol grip – then, rolling his eyes, forces himself to relax. Just an uppity recruit. Probably found a fly in his soup and decided to air his grievances to someone higher up the loosely-organized and slapshod Ravager ranks than Shorro. All Peter has to do is tell him not to shout about it or everyone’ll want one. After all, it’s a long journey back into profitable hunting-space. Their diets need all the extra protein they can find. 

Nevertheless, a reminder of his authority can’t hurt. Peter squares off his shoulders. “Go on then. What’s got you so mad you shove your second mate into a wall?” 

“Second mate?” The Shi’ar’s snort makes hairs raise along Peter’s forearms; he brushes his pistol again, just to make sure it’s still there. “What a load of bollocks. Our so-called _captain_ can’t bring home the booty ‘cause he’s too busy playing with his new brats, while his old brat swans about the place like he owns it. Makes me sick.” 

Oh dear. Peter doesn’t dare break eye contact, all too aware of the several places under the Shi’ar’s jacket that a knife could be stowed. But he swears he sees a glimpse of purple scales over the man’s shoulder. 

_Zqo_. 

Peter knew she was pissed the moment Yondu’s craft returned. Girl’d been fuming. It’s a shame she dislikes him so much, or else they could’ve commiserated one another. Peter would've enjoyed that: there’s a mighty fine rack on her, albeit one scalier than Peter’s used to (and, given that her species isn’t mammalian, fuck knows what those tits are used for). 

“Hey Zqo,” he says conversationally. “Your buddy here been at the booze?” 

Zqo’s glare is hard and cold as ice-chips off a comet. “No.” But she pulls on the Shi’ar’s shoulder. “Leave him be. He ain’t worth it.” 

“We coulda made a proper mint off them savages –“ 

“’Savages’? You better watch what you say.” Zqo pointedly rubs the aubergine circlet of bruising around her neck. “Cap’n gets mighty tetchy.” 

If relieving tension’s what she’s going for, her tactics aren’t effective. The Shi’ar’s lips peel to the top of his gums. His teeth are rotten and loam-woven. “’Tetchy’? Cap’n’s getting _soft_ , if you ask me.” 

Zqo’s glare breaks from Peter long enough to squint at her companion. “Careful, Igori. That sorta talk’s briggable.” 

Passing Ravagers halt to observe the scene, expecting entertainment regardless of which side wins. One lifts a nervous hand. “He’s got a point though. Between them kids of his and this – I’m startin’ t’wonder if he cares more about _family_ than he does about profits.” 

Peter, heartbeat revving as he realizes the hazardous situation he’s landed himself in, can’t help but giggle. Immediately, every glower is on him. “What’s so funny?” spits Zqo. 

Peter’s shrug is breezy. “Oh, nothing. Just guess I’m not part of that _family_ anymore.” 

The Shi’ar’s nasty smile splits wider. A knife whips from his sleeve in a flash of dirty silver, tip scratching Peter’s too-fast pulse. “Then he ain’t gonna miss ya –“ 

“Woah!” Zqo, eyes bugged wider than Peter’s ever seen them, yanks on Igori’s wrist. “What the fuck? You crazy, stupid, or both?” 

Igori shakes her off. “Yer the one that said you was sick of Udonta botching jobs cause of stupid sentiment. _I_ say we don’t gotta accept that shit. _I_ say we do somethin’ about it!” 

Oh dear. This has far surpassed the realms of ‘not good’, and is swiftly approaching ‘fuck, run for the escape pods’. Especially seeing as the rest of the gathered crew don’t sneer and shake their heads at Igori’s polemic. Instead, they nod. Some even crack their knuckles. They’re all underdeckers by the looks of it; he and Zqo are the only Bridge specialists. But that means little. There’s enough no-rank Ravagers to swarm the _Eclector_ and pick it of Yondu’s supporters from observation deck to engines. 

Peter glances at Zqo – she at least seems to realize the danger of the situation. Her clever brain picks apart the scenario. She could fob Igori off, go warn Yondu, risk him finding out she’d technically started this by bitching about him crushing her neck like a stressball. Alternatively, she could stay here and face the captain’s arrow with the rest. 

Usually that’d be an easy decision. Any Ravager expecting to last more than a week nurtures a healthy dread of their captain and his weapon-of-choice. But Zqo touches the bruises, and her frown digs deeper still. 

“This may not end well,” she says, cautious. 

Igori waves her off. His attention’s still on Peter – a shame, because he’d have gladly used the distraction to scarper. “I ain’t the only one who’s been thinkin’ this way. So long as we’re smart about this, and so long as no lil’ rats go crying to boss, we could take this fuckin’ ship by storm.” 

The knife on Peter’s windpipe nicks. Just a little. He savours his next breath, well aware that it might be his last. 

“We gather support,” Igori continues. “We make _plans._ And then, once word’s spread far enough – we strike. Anyone dares snitch? I’ll show ya what I’ll do to ‘em!” 

This time, the knife does more than nick. Blood coats the tendon linking Peter’s jaw to his collarbone, a slick hot waterfall. He doesn’t dare swallow again, although his throat’s parched. Terror of immanent death will do that to you. “If you’re looking for a rat,” he croaks, every motion of his jaw making the blade slice closer to those vital arteries, “you’re not gonna find one in me.” 

Igori’s grin gets impossibly nastier. “What d’you mean?” 

“That I’m not gonna stop you from gutting the old bastard and his spawn. In fact…” Peter matches that smirk with one of his own. He takes advantage of the puzzlement that clouds Igori’s expression, gently easing the knife away. Igori resists – but only a moment. “I’ll help.” 

*** 

Kraglin’s the second to admit that Quill’s an irritating dolt – the first being Yondu. However, while Yondu’s recitation of Quill’s faults has always been tinged with the sense that he’s listing them more for others’ benefit than his own, maybe even to hide how much he cares about the overgrown idiot, Kraglin doesn’t share his views on the matter. 

Quill’s Yondu’s kid. No one denies it, besides Quill and Yondu themselves. 

But Kraglin’s always been on the fence where Quill’s concerned. He never wanted to keep him in the first place, all too aware of how a Ravager’s rep could crumple with a small Terran tagalong. Heck, he’d been jealous. He admits it now; it’s easier in hindsight. He’d hated the brat for taking up so much of Yondu’s attention and time. Yondu had a limited amount of patience and Peter’s shenanigans sponged that reserve dry. By the time Yondu crawled into bed besides him he was depleted, and Kraglin’s attempts to encourage amorous contact were met with snarls and snaps. 

That’s all past though. Quill’s more than proved his worth, and Kraglin’s come to respect him as an ally, even a friend. There’s scant few Ravagers he truly trusts – less perhaps even than Yondu – but Peter’s among them. That means more than soppy paternal affection, in Kraglin’s book. 

However, just because he doesn’t envisage Quill as one of his offspring doesn’t mean he can’t be concerned about him. Yondu fights his eldest all the time; whether their blows are literal or figurative matters little. But ignoring each other? That’s new. And _new_ equates potential danger. 

If Yondu ain’t gonna grow up and clean up his mess, Kraglin’s duty-bound to do it for him. 

“Hey,” Yondu murmurs. His voice doesn’t do ‘quiet’ well; it scratches deep in his throat, sandpaper over his vocal cords. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” 

Kraglin, tucked against his back, hooks his chin over a broad blue shoulder and mashes his lips on Yondu’s stubble. “Nothin’. Why’re you awake? The babies don’t need feedin’.” 

“Nah.” Yondu rolls so he doesn’t have to dislocate something as they share a slow, stale kiss. “Yer brain was whirrin’ so loud it woke me up.” 

“Hm.” The non-commital answer is drowned by the soft, wet caress of Yondu’s tongue. Everything’s soporific and lazy. The lights in their room rest on the dimmest setting, a stroke away from pitch black. Phospherence from Yondu’s implant glosses their moving mouths. It’s gentler than they’re used to: without bright lighting’s unshakable reality, they’re freed from the demands of captain and first mate, stripped of everything but their rawest natures in this moment: two men sharing touches in the dark. 

That in mind, Kraglin worms his hand between them. He dips between Yondu’s thighs, Yondu hiking up a leg to make room, and sets to fingering him in deep, lazy strokes, stimulating his clit and balls with each grind of his bony palm. Yondu grunts. He rocks his pelvis onto Kraglin’s hand. The glide of his cunt over Kraglin’s fingers, ever-more frictionless as he slickens, is electrifying. That arousal only increases when Yondu dabbles around the stretched lips, gathering moisture to ease his fisting of Kraglin’s cock. 

Their chests brush as he feels out the tip, easing his foreskin from the weeping head. Yondu’s pectorals are still heavy with milk. Kraglin knows he doesn’t like them being touched, so he restrains himself from groping him properly; but the rake of Kraglin’s ribs against them as they breathe has Yondu gasping, sensitive nipples peaked. He tugs Kraglin until he’s as hard as he is. 

His palm’s calloused. Not as much as Kraglin’s (doesn’t spend nearly as much time holding a gun) but enough to make the experience as intense as it is pleasurable. Kraglin ruts into the warm grip, his tip dragging on the stretched skin of Yondu’s pouch. He makes sure to stir the wetness between his mate’s legs, scissoring the elastic channel until his whole hand’s drenched in thick, aromatic slick. “Want me t’fuck you, sir?” he pants. 

Yondu considers it. Shakes his head – Kraglin can tell because the red pulse from his implant swivels from side to side, swelling and receding with the synchronized thumps of their hearts. “We best keep quiet. Nothing kills the mood like a screechin’ baby.” 

Kraglin sniggers. “Or a screeching eight-year-old. Remember that time I was ridin’ ya and Quill came banging on the cabin door ‘cause you’d told him to put itchin’ powder in Horuz’s boots –“ The hand on his cock vanishes. Kraglin, after bucking his hips in a helpless attempt to find it again, squints through the gloom at Yondu’s thinned red eyes. “Uh. What.” 

“Nothing kills the mood like talkin’ about Quill either.” 

Kraglin circles Yondu’s clit and crooks his fingers against his frontal wall in the hopes of reinitiating his touches. It’s not successful. Yondu contracts – an unspoken demand: _out_ – and squirms to boot Kraglin when he doesn’t comply fast enough. Still optimistic, Kraglin retreats from the seeping hole, his fingers webbed with silvery secretion. He goes to fondle Yondu’s prick. But, rather than the solid shape he’s expecting, finds himself with a handful of half-flaccid flesh that seems to be headed down rather than up. 

Yondu kicks his shin. “Quit it.” Letting him extract himself and flop onto his side, facing away from the evidence of Kraglin’s lingering arousal, Kraglin scowls and rubs the back of his head – forgetting where that hand’s just been and earning himself a sticky Mohawk. That’s gonna be nice in the morning. 

“If ya can’t get it up, I can just put it in ya from behind –“ 

“Shut up!” On cue, Thing One and Thing Two open their tiny blue-pink mouths and start to wail. Moaning, Yondu kneads knuckles into his browbone. “Now look what you done!” Kraglin doesn’t dare correct him. Yondu vacates the bed, glare a hair short of murderous. He stomps to the caterwauling infants. Kraglin’s offer of help is waylaid by a warning whistle. He’s forced to perch on the bed, feeling as useless as he’s confused, while his mate plucks the loudest offender to rest on his chest – girl’s got some mighty lungs on her – and strokes the soft scalp of the boy: a triple-linked chain to which Kraglin isn’t invited. 

They calm fairly rapidly. Kraglin ought to be happy about that. Except that they settle in response to hummed fragments from that strange Centaurian tune, the one Yondu won’t tell Kraglin the meaning or significance of. 

He doesn’t tell Kraglin much anymore. 

While certain parts of his life have always been no-go zones in conversation, circumstances have brought them to the fore. Farthi’s presence, for one. Memories of the Ignokai settlement for another. Both are fresh in Kraglin’s mind. Those years before Yondu wore the reds have never bothered him in the past, but now they’re like an open wound he can’t stop picking at long enough to let heal. 

“I love ya,” he tries. Usually that achieves a softening of Yondu’s grumps, no matter how slight. This time, Yondu rolls his eyes at him – Kraglin knows because a luminous red gleam sweeps the ceiling – and rocks their daughter one-armed while their son snuggles his wrist. Kraglin sighs. Best to tackle the problem at its source. “Sorry I brought up Quill.” 

Yondu’s scoff informs him that the second mention is scarcely more appreciated than the first. Kraglin makes some headway though. Satisfied the babies are sleeping, Yondu tucks them around the exothermosphere in their cot and pads back to bed. “No more talkin’,” he orders. Kraglin ought to know better than to disobey. But while Yondu’s boss, crew rules don’t apply behind closed doors. Yondu can’t toss him in the brig for misconduct, not without jeopardizing their whole relationship. He ain’t mad enough for that. Kraglin hopes. 

He clears his throat. “You gotta talk to him sometime. Fix things. Make ‘em right. You saw the way Quill looked at Farthi, right? Between him and the kids… Boy probably thinks there’s no space for him in this family no more.” There’s no answer. By all appearances, Yondu passed out the moment his head hit pillow. But the colours in his implant have yet to fade, so Kraglin sets his jaw and doggedly continues. “It ain’t right, you two being at odds. Sets the whole crew on edge. Babies too – Quill’s meant to be their brother, and they ain’t gonna realize that if he’s distant when they’re young. So, way I see it, you got two choices. Either you let things stew until somethin’ breaks, or you do something about it.” 

That’s all the speechifying he has energy for. Yondu doesn’t say anything. But when Kraglin closes the distance between them, knees tucked behind Yondu’s and reclaiming his languid spoon, he isn’t shouldered away. 

*** 

“This’s stupid!” Zqo hisses. She and Peter have absconded from the rallying mutineers, pleading loo-break. Now they watch through the cracks in a ventilation grill as Igori preaches to a crowd of redcoats that’s done nothing over the last hour but grow. “How’s he getting so much support?” 

There’s at least fifty men in the corridor below. Twenty more women, and a dozen whose gender isn’t compatible with binarisms. Not everyone who’d heard the rallying cry had heeded it, but while Igori might be a nobody, he’s no idiot. He convinced someone on the comms squad to monitor the internal networks. All connections to and from the Bridge crews’ watches are blocked. It won’t take long for them to notice, but their first thought will be glitch rather than mutiny, and anyone who heads to the comms deck to get it fixed will saunter straight into an ambush. 

Peter, crammed into the shaft besides her, tries not to think about the boobs in close proximity with his face. “Probably because he’s right?” He meets Zqo’s shocked stare with a shrug. “It’s true. Yondu spends half his time chasing The Spawn around deck.” 

_The Spawn._ That’s what they call them. Peter already labeled them as such in his mind, but it’s unnerving to hear Igori use that same language as he describes how he’ll hang ‘em on meat hooks and drain them for the stew pot. 

“Not much meat on ‘em,” he growls, arms spread wide as a crucifix as he preaches to the riled crowd. “But we never gotta taste of Terran. I’m dyin’ to find out if Centaurian’s as tender as they say.” 

“So we gonna eat the Terran too?” someone asks. In the vent above, Peter freezes. Zqo brushes his knee, a warning and comfort alike. But Igori shakes his head. 

“He’s with us. Plus, he’s big now. Meat’d be tougher than his boots. Same with Udonta and his bitch of a mate. No use stewing them up; they’d take longer to cook than they’re worth. Obfenteri’s got a low bounty: I say we gut him and toss him out the airlock. As for Udonta… Well, if we seal his arrow he’s as good as useless. And there’s plenty in the quadrant who’d pay a pretty sum for him.” 

“Nova Corps?” asks that same voice. Peter, stomach lurching up his throat, prays Igori answers in the affirmative. His sickening suspicions are met. 

“Nah.” Igori’s tone remains casual, as if discussing the solar-weather. “I’m talkin’ Romago’s lot – the Horde. Or Asgardians. They still use slaves, right? If we act soon we can head for the reservation planet and pick up the rest to keep him company.” 

That’s it. He’s heard enough. Peter rubs his temples. “We've got to warn them.” 

“I’m still considering joining these dolts!” But when Peter studies Zqo’s face, illuminated ghoulishly by the harsh red lamps in the hallway below, he finds it tense and scared. “Okay. Won’t be long before Igori realizes we’re lagging on our piss-stop. Then he’ll send out scouts, try and hunt us down…” She works out their odds in silence. Judging by the slumping shoulders, they aren’t favourable. “It’s a fair way to the captain’s cabin. That’s a lotta ground to cover without catching a plasma shot to the back. And given how many folks he’s drawn to his side already, we’re gonna have to treat everyone as hostile.” 

Just hearing those words makes Peter’s confidence wither. But if his smile fades now, it’ll never recuperate. He draws his pistol, ruby light glancing off his grin. “We best get going then,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **COMMENTZZZ. You know the drill.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oh god this got long**

Peter leads the way. He’s not too happy about this – ideally, he’d have Zqo in his line of sight at all times. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her. Despite her grumbling, she’s as loyal to Yondu as any of the Bridge crew – the events of the past hour have proved that. However, he’s more than aware of her abhorrence of All Things Quill, and doesn’t put it past her to use him as a diversion should they stumble into an ambush.

So far, they’ve been lucky on that front. This is mostly thanks to Zqo putting her freaky lizard-hearing to good use and pinching his bicep whenever another Ravager nears. The few times they haven’t been within sprinting distance of a tributary corridor, they’ve hooked a panel off the wall – both of them are familiar with their placement, having spent long disciplinary hours on Scrubs – and bundled into a cramped supply closet. 

That had been fun. If there’s one thing worse than relying on someone to watch your back who’s been lobbying to seve you up in canteen since you first joined the crew, it’s being forced into a tiny space with them. Especially when they’re smoking hot. 

…On second thoughts, perhaps it’s for the best that Peter walk ahead. Zqo’s ass might prove too much of a distraction. 

“Peter,” Zqo snaps, _sotto voce_. “You’ve stopped moving.” 

So he has. Peter shoots her a sheepish smile and resumes his tiptoe. He doesn’t need a map. Not anymore. When he first walked these halls, every new corner terrified him. They reminded him how lost he was – like a child trapped in a catacomb, or a subterranean labyrinth devoid of all natural light. Only the _Eclector_ wasn’t underground. Oh no – it was worse. Immersed in an endless black ocean, the frigidity of which would one day devour all life. 

Peter eventually learnt to respect the aether, rather than almost pissing himself every time he glanced out a portal. (Yeah, he’d loved space before mum… passed, but there was a vast difference between tacking ET posters to your wall and being abducted by aliens). The lesson came after Yondu found him quaking under his bed during a mild solar storm. As soon as the pounding hail of comet-glass ceased, he dragged him to the nearest airlock before popping forcefield-masks behind both of their ears. Checking for damages with a young Terran clinging weightless to your arm couldn’t be all that efficient – but it had done the job. Peter’d held onto him with both arms and legs. Then just the arms. Then a hand. Then, once Yondu kicked him away (Peter’s rocket-boots were singing his calf) with nothing at all. Peter had cartwheeled head over the heels. His flails carded empty space, but found no purchase, no way to slow the nauseating rotation. At last, as the _Eclector_ began to shrink, he’d activated the rocket-boots again – intentionally this time – and flown back to punch his captain. 

After that, little scared Peter. Pissed off women were the exception. 

On cue, Zqo’s sneering face bobs into his lower peripherals. “Speed it up, Terran. You ain’t scared, are ya?” 

Peter, rising to the bait, exchanges his silent lope for a jog. The smack of his boots against the loose-welded floor grills grows louder, preluding their passage with an echo of rubber on steel. Thus, it shouldn’t be a surprise when they round a corner to come nose-to-barrel with a primed necroblaster. 

Peter pulls up short. Zqo doesn’t. She slams heavily into his back, and Peter has to strain to keep from brushing the sizzling plasma-residue clinging to the black metal. “Watch it!” he hisses. 

“Fuck off and keep runnin –“ He hears the dry click of Zqo’s eyelids as she absorbs the scene. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” says Igori, smirking. “Oh. 

Behind him, twenty other blasters click to _on_. 

*** 

“How did they get ahead of us?” Zqo spits as they’re hustled along a narrow passage. The answer’s obvious. She must realize it because she falls silent, glowering at the Klyntar frogmarching her – whose reply comes in the flick of a long pink tongue. Peter, dangling between a Kymellian and a Kree, morosely drops his head to hang between his shoulders. Of course. Taking the least populated tunnels means less danger of being chased, more danger of being cut off. What’s it that Yondu always tells him? _Ya wanna survive? You think ahead._ Now Peter’s made a rookie mistake, and he, Yondu, Kraglin and the sproglets are all gonna pay for it. 

And Farthi, of course. Although the older Centaurian’s too busy whistling to care. His arrow passes in an arc, spearing the four furthest conspirators like kebab meat on an invisible skewer. 

“Boy!” he yells (at which Peter bristles because dammit, he’s in his thirties; and only Yondu’s allowed to call him that). “Getcher ass on the ground!” 

Peter does so – and not a moment too soon. He’s lucky his captors’ grip loosened in shock. A necro-blast whizzes over his head and sears a fist-sized hole in the wall, carrying half the Kymellian’s skull with it. His body remains upright, remaining eye twitching spasmodically, before crumpling face-first on Peter’s back. 

Igori swears. He sprints for the nearest corridor, flanked by his followers. Farthi considers following – his arrow zipping into its quiver while he dithers. But then he spits something guttural that Peter needs no translator to interpret, and stalks over to grab Peter’s hand. He hauls him to his feet. “You good?” 

If he discounts sizzled hair-ends. “Yeah.” 

“You, girl?” 

Zqo, who’d dropped at the shot, pushes to her feet, blinking. “Yes,” she says. Then winces and grabs her arm. “Ow –“ 

“You’re hurt?” 

“Ain’t nothing.” She’s holding her sleeve with the sort of dogged determination Peter’s seen on the faces of M-ship pilots as their crafts spiral to earth, smoke trailing from their engines but fighting until the last minute to stay airborn. 

“You sure?” The glare Zqo shoots him could curdle jet fuel. “Okay, okay! Sheesh!” 

“We gotta move,” comes Farthi’s grim declaration. He’s watching the shadows of the hall into which Igori vanished through narrowed red eyes. “They probably thought there were more of us. He’ll be back as soon as he realizes…” 

“Us?” Peter asks. At which point Horuz drops from the ceiling grill and lands boot-first on the downed Kree, who’d been reaching for his holster. The air explodes from him in a noisy whoosh – followed by a fair amount of blood, as Horuz stomps on his throat. “Oh. Hi.” 

“Took ya long enough,” Farthi says. Horuz, beard bristling, spins on him – his heel squelches where it’s grinding open the Kree’s carotid – and jabs a meaty finger under his nose. 

“Next time we rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets to crawl through the fuckin’ vents, it’s best outta three.” 

“Aw…” Farthi swings his bow back over one leatherclad shoulder, frowning at the unusual sensation as its string digs through padded fabric. “You get stuck?” 

The index finger is exchanged for a middle one. “Fuck you, blue.” 

“Sorry, my friend. I couldn’t resist.” 

Peter almost goggles – before remembering not all Centaurians are Yondu, and therefore it’s entirely feasible that Farthi should say the ‘s’ word. “What are you doing here anyway?” he asks. “Not that I’m not grateful…” 

Farthi’s cheeks crinkle like scrunched tissue paper, bunched on either side of his broad yellow grin. He pats Peter on the shoulder. “Saw a crowd marchin’ along all serious-like. Figured we’d find out what caused the hullabaloo. Before we know it there’s you and missy here – “ Missy manages a pained smile, “-And talk of mutiny. Care to explain?” 

“Alright. Footnotes.” Peter points at her. “She told Igori Yondu’d gone soft because he didn’t wanna turn your lot into slaves –“ 

“That is a gross misinterpretation of events,” grits Zqo, but her pained grimace as her arm jars tightens her jaw so much that she can’t continue. 

“Igori got pissed, rallied what looks like _half the fucking ship_ and is currently on his way to butcher Yondu, Kraglin, kiddos, and anyone who stands between him and the captain’s chair.” 

“Hm.” Farthi shucks the quiver higher, metal arrows jangling like windchimes. “Well, we can’t let that happen, can we?” 

*** 

Something’s wrong. 

Over the years, Yondu’s gut instinct has developed into a divining rod any witchdoctor would murder for. He can feel trouble coming a lightyear away. As he’s also the sort of guy who chucks rocks at sleeping bilgesnipe for the shits and giggles, this doesn’t do him much good. 

Nevertheless, you can never be too careful. He checks the baby monitor. It’s a ramshackle patch-job courtesy of the comms crew, about as ugly as it's clunky and a damn pain to lug around. But it does its job. And that means Yondu and Kraglin can do theirs. 

They’re on the bridge, supervising their course. Next stop: Central Starways. They’re gonna have to haul in some fat prey soon or the crew’ll kick up a helluva fuss – but fat prey means _dangerous_ prey, and while less Ravagers alive on pay-day means more dosh for the rest of ‘em, no man’ll risk his neck on a suicide run. So Yondu’s busy organizing. Making sure each and every M-ship is prepped with their dwindling fuel supply, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice. Directing an effort to plug that annoying leak in the engine core, which’s acting up again and filling his bilges with radon gas. Checking their booze stocks, ensuring the medbay’s as sterile as can be hoped for, and praying to any and all Gods that a bank-ship (sans heavily armed escorts) falls into their laps. 

Every variable he can control is under his thumb, and there’s nothing Yondu can do but wait. So why’s he feel like he’s missing something? 

“Hey boss,” says Kraglin, sauntering to stand besides him as he stares through his own reflection. The darting, salmon-quick glimmers of colour that surround them during lightspeed illuminate the Bridge like the inside of a disco ball. “Wassup?” 

“Aw, nothin’…” Yondu glowers at the mirror-image of the Bridge crew, bent in diligent silence over their consoles. “S’just too quiet, I guess. I’m as fidgety as the damn crew – we need us a good job, and fast.” 

He keeps his voice low enough that only Kraglin hears. Not that it would matter if the Bridge crew eavesdropped. They’re all as trusted as Ravagers get: Yondu’s carefully selected inner circle, most of whom have followed him since the last captain was in power. This last month (and the enumerable fuck-ups that accompanied it) have made ‘em a little grumblier, but Yondu knows they’d never turn on him. 

His low-ranked crew, however… 

He turns away, stomping to his chair with his coat snapping on the tops of his boots. “I’m callin’ Quill,” he says. Kraglin looks shocked, then abruptly delighted – takes Yondu a moment to figure out why. Idiot probably assumes this’s his doing, after their conversation last night. But screw him. Like hell is Yondu gonna cave first. He’s not checking on his boy in any fatherly capacity; he’s just talking to him as a captain to his most annoying subordinate. Making sure Peter’s scrubbing walls with his tooth brush like he’s been ordered. Peter’ll be spurred out of his cold silence and yell at him, then Yondu’ll yell back, and everything’ll go back to normal. 

…Or it would, if only Yondu could get his damn communicator to work. “No signal,” he mutters, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he jiggles the casing back and forth. Kraglin leans over. 

“Have ya tried turnin’ it off and back on again –“ 

“Course I have, dumbass.” Sighing, Yondu lets his busted watch flop on his lap. He gestures for Kraglin’s wrist. “Les try yours then. I’ll get mine fixed after shift.” 

Kraglin obediently raises his arm, Yondu clasping his gaunt wrist and folding the sleeve so he has unfettered access to all angles of the watch, as well as a fair amount of Kraglin’s bushy armhair. “Huh,” he mutters, after tugging it this way and that, punching in the necessary co-ordinates at varying pressures, and shaking it (and its attached Hraxian) yields no results. “That’s odd.” 

He pushes from his seat. Kraglin repeats his procedures on his watch, as if a second opinion’s gonna change anything. “No luck,” he says, showing Yondu the empty read out. That sense of _wrongness_ is amplifying, crawling up Yondu’s throat like sour vomit. He claps his hand for the Bridge’s attention. 

“Anyone got signal on their watch?” There’s a mass rustle as twenty-odd sleeves are pushed up, and a mass mumble in the negative. _Odd_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. “Right,” Yondu growls, heading for the door. “I’mma go see comms. Krags? Go get our brats. Bring ‘em here and lock down the doors.” 

“Sir?” 

“Just a precaution. Probably ain’t nothin’.” Getting what he’s hinting at, Kraglin shuts his mouth, lips a squeezed-tight horizontal line. He nods once, sharp and guarded, and darts for the corridor. Yondu addresses his Bridge crew, most of whom have stopped to stare. “Get back t’work, ya lazy sods! By the time I’m back, I want us to be past Dagobar, _at least!_ ” 

The chorus of ‘yessirs’ fades as Yondu exits through the Bridge’s heavy blast door. Should the forcefields fade and the hull breach along top-deck, that door’ll keep him, and the Ravagers deemed most vital to operations, alive and with a decent air supply until they can rustle up a plan. It’s also, theoretically, supposed to be able to hold off a siege. Yondu hopes it doesn’t come to that. 

The walk to the comm-centre is disturbingly silent. That only serves to stoke his tension. Yondu makes himself relax with the ease of one who a), is more than adept at navigating dangerous situations, and b), knows he’s the scariest fucker on this ship. He hears faint snatches of conversation flowing from side-corridors, but they all cut off as he passes. Yondu doesn’t bother glaring at the perpetrators. If they try and attack him, they’ll only warrant as much attention as it takes for him to skewer ‘em. 

He stops before the comms centre doors. They’re shut. Directly disobeying his orders – they’re to be kept open during all shift-hours when there’s someone there to man the desk, which really means twenty-four seven, as all his crew work on rotation. He knows a few of ‘em are ditzy enough to close it by accident. He’s cussed them out more than one in the past for shutting it when they were complaining of a breeze (if he and Farthi can deal with temperatures ten-odd degrees lower than they’re designed for, the comms crew can suck it up and wear extra layers). However, Vaas is in charge now – smart bald chick who’s always been a bit ambitious for Yondu’s liking. She keeps his boys in line. 

…Possibly in line behind that very same door, blasters primed and ready. But Yondu can’t think like that. If he’s caught dithering outside a potential ambush rather than stalking on in to spring the trap, that’s another black mark against him in the crew’s eyes. He’s gotta be tough, he’s gotta be hard, he’s gotta be badass enough that all attempts to stomp him down result in amputated feet. 

Yondu knocks. “Anyone home?” he calls. 

A pause. Then – entirely too chipper – Vaas’ voice. “Yessir!” 

“Care to tell me why this door’s shut, girl?” 

“Well, y’know it gets mighty nippy…” 

Yondu flips his trenchcoat over the arrow. It vibrates against his thigh, attuned to the eagerness for battle that threads his implant with ruby light. “Open the door, Vaas.” 

“Yessir.” 

Yondu strains his ears for the faint cocks of blasters, but nothing transmits through the steel. Just in case, he edges to one side, so he’ll be covered as the gates swing open. 

It’s a wise decision. 

As soon as a chink of light shows – the eerie green of the comms deck, truncated by a man’s silhouette – a plasma bolt melts through the floor grills where Yondu’d been standing a moment before. Idiots. Yondu places the lot of ‘em with a flash of his implant – but he’s prevented from whistling by the fact that there’s a good double of the usual comm team. That means there’s a chance this mutiny ain’t Vaas’s brainchild. And _that_ means Yondu can’t just mow ‘em all down willy-nilly. He’s gotta aim. 

Rolling his eyes, he steps from cover. “Now that ain’t no way to treat yer captain –“ Another plasma ball singes his right ear, Yondu ducking just in time. “Rude –“ But, as he scurries for the other door, he casts a fast scope at the room before him. 

Comm crew, with the exception of Vaas, lashed to their chairs. Some grunts he doesn’t know barricading the entrance, stolen pistols dwarfed by their large clawed hands. Vaas is with the second lot – but when she sees Yondu’s made it to cover unharmed, her violet eyes narrow. Yondu grins to himself as another plasma shot echoes, followed by a sharp scream. Looks like Vaas is making her allegiance clear. Girl always did have a knack for choosing the winning side. 

If Yondu doesn’t do something though, she’ll be executed. As much stress as that’d relieve in the long run, comms crew are damned tough to train. Perusing his mental layout of the room, he pictures the positions of the insurgents, hoping they haven’t scattered away from Vaas. Then he whistles. 

*** 

“So,” huffs Kraglin. He meets him in the corridor, lugging their babies one under each arm. “How’d it go?” Yondu, wiping blood off his arrow with a leather rag he’d ripped from a corpse, smirks. Kraglin’s nod is sage. “That good, huh.” 

Vaas’d been kind enough to unblock the comm relays again (after reassuring Yondu that assisting him had been her intention all along). She’s got new orders – barricade her team in their quarters, monitor feeds and keep Yondu updated. She’s also been informed, in explicit detail, what’ll happen to her if she disobeys. The galleon needs a new figurehead. Last time they were in atmosphere, the old one rotted away. 

Yondu checks Kraglin over, then gives the same treatment to each of his children, lifting them in turn. “They’re fine,” Kraglin says, as the girl gurgles, Yondu holding her upside down to make sure no blood’s dripping out of her head. “We’re fine.” But Yondu has to see for himself. It takes a minute to be satisfied that three parts of his family are safe. After that’s sorted, Yondu decides he’d better make sure the same applies to the other one. 

“Peter. You copy, boy?” 

“Yondu!” Peter sounds breathless. “Where are you? There’s trouble – some loser called Igori, preaching about how you’ve gone soft and we’d be better off under new management…” 

“Yeah, I noticed. I’m on top deck. Can you getcher ass to the Bridge?” 

“Me, yeah. Same for Farthi and Horuz. But Zqo’s losing blood fast – she’s been shot in the arm; must’ve nicked an artery… We’re trying to tourniquet, but we gotta keep moving. First stop’s medbay.” 

Thank fuck he’d made sure Mijo’s prepared for a crisis. Yondu nods. He wants to say he’ll meet ‘em there, give them an escort to the Bridge’s relative safety once Zqo’s all patched up. But he doesn’t want to have to kill every Ravager he meets along the way. If they strike a big haul when they reach the Central Starways, there’s gonna be lots of casualties regardless. They can’t afford to lose many men – Yondu already regrets bumping off seven mutineers on the comm deck. Best way forwards is to deal with Igori solo. Cut the head off the snake, so to speak. Only – no. Decapitation’s too fast. Yondu’s got a mental catalogue of organs that’d impress Mijo. She might be less impressed by the fact that they’re not organized alphabetically, or by placement in the body, but by the length of time someone can live after they’ve been punctured by a radioactive arrow. 

Igori’s going out slow and agonizing. Captain’s gotta teach stuff, after all. 

“Tell Farthi to ditch you lot and come here solo then,” he says. “We’ll secure the Bridge, and then me an’ him’ll hunt this rat down.” 

*** 

“Ya realize our senses’re fucked in space?” That’s the first thing Farthi asks. Straight down to business; Yondu appreciates that, although he’d rather his words were anything but the truth. The old Centaurian arrives at the Bridge door panting, slathered in blood – all red though, so none of it’s his own. He’s ditched his heavy overcoat so he has more mobility, and Yondu’s impressed by how firm he looks under his wrinkled, pruney skin. Anyone twenty years Yondu’s senior who’s still got the strength to draw a bow is a force to be reckoned with. 

Not for the first time, Yondu regrets not investing in potplants. This’d be so much easier if they had non-sentient biological matter to bounce off of. 

But then Farthi glances at the kids, and says – “Y’know, there’s a reason Centaurians hunt in packs?” 

Yes. Yondu knows. But that’s also unthinkable. “They ain’t comin’,” he growls, shirking off his own coat and bundling it at Czar – given Kraglin’s hands are full with whimpering infants, who have picked up on the tense atmosphere and look a breath away from bawling. 

“You wanna get this over with quickly? Heck, there’s a chance that our crests… Uh, my crest and yer…” He waves his hand. Yondu sneers. Farthi wisely gets on with it. “They won’t register a thing. Certainly nothin’ more specific than _there’s some living things around this corner._ If yer lookin’ for one guy, we need more vegetation or more Centaurians.” He has a point. With stakes this high, denial ain’t gonna get him anything but dead – they’re at a serious disadvantage, and Yondu has to acknowledge that and work around it, if he wants to survive. But… Dammit. Taking his babies to the reservation was hazardous enough. Is he really gonna endanger them again? 

…What’s the alternative? Let Igori keep gathering support, keep working his glib magic and convincing the crew that Yondu ain’t the captain for them? If he leaves this problem to fester, the infection’ll escalate until gouging out the core won’t hinder its spread. Rumour births rumour, plot hatches plot, and if Yondu doesn’t act quickly he envisions his whole operation crumbling around his ears. 

That settles it. If only Kraglin would see things his way. 

The Hraxian backs rearwards as Yondu advances, shaking his head so hard his Mohawk trembles. “No!” he spits, angling the twins away. “No, you ain’t gonna do this! You can’t seriously be thinkin’ –“ 

Yondu crowds him against the wall. “Mom gets custody,” he says, patting Kraglin’s fuzzy cheek. But when he goes to tug the brats away, Kraglin’s grip fails to loosen. “Uh. Leggo, Krags.” 

The boy stretches between them, Yondu grabbing under his arms and Kraglin clamping his legs. He’d usually be giggling at the game. But the expression on Yondu’s face is too serious: his smile dwindles, his pink mouth gapes wide, and he begins to scream. The girl is determined not to be left out. She howls at a pitch that has the Bridge crew scrambling for cover, stoppering their ears with fingers, wads of pocket lint, and anything else they have close to hand. 

“Fuck!” Isla barges Kraglin, clumsy as a barrage balloon. “Just let him take ‘em already! This ain’t the time for a custody battle!” 

Kraglin clings a rebellious second longer. Then, eyes almost hidden beneath his sharply angled brows, releases. 

Yondu gathers his babies up, trying to rock and hush them without releasing his mate from his deathglare. “Ya think I can’t look after ‘em?” he hisses, as the shrieks ebb to whimpers. 

“I think you’ll do yer best. But they’ll be safer here – ya can’t argue with that.” 

“Safer? For how long? If me an’ Farthi can’t find Igori on our lonesome, where d’you think’s the first place he’ll come?” He jerks his chin at the door. “That barricade ain’t gonna hold ‘em forever. Best chance for the lot of us? We nip this shitstorm in the bud before Igori starts allocating heirs to his command.” 

Kraglin’s about as stubborn as a mule with a carrot shoved up its ass in private – but he usually affords Yondu an inkling of the respect demanded by his title, when they’re under the public eye. Not so today. Kraglin glowers. “And if ya lose yer own heirs into the bargain?” 

Yondu doesn’t waste time explaining that the twins aren’t his _heirs_ ; even if Ravager leadership was decided by anything other than popular consensus, Peter’s older. Kraglin already knows. He’s just being ornery. Rolling his eyes at him, Yondu shuffles one twin across to Farthi – at which Kraglin’s glare sours as if he’s chomped an underripe lemon. He can suck it up. Of course Farthi’s gonna carry one – Yondu’s improved at handling them, and can now stop ‘em climbing him like a tree trunk and/or darting away to scramble up the nearest wall, so long as they’re sleepy, he ain’t moving, and he has no other distractions. Keeping them close while sprinting – or possibly even fighting – will be hard enough when he’s dealing with one. 

“Say goodbye to daddy,” he says, helping the baby girl wave. He pincers her tiny wrist between his finger and thumb. “And tell him to quit worrying. He’s gonna wind up with more wrinkles than me.” 

Kraglin’s arms are crossed, and he’s scowling. But the corners of that scowl twitch, just a little, when the girl cheerfully repeats the motion, and tweets at him in baby-nonsense. The rest of the Bridge crew – bar Isla – are wise enough to find something else that requires their attention, or at least not to openly laugh. 

*** 

“So,” Yondu asks, once they’re in the corridor. The rumble of the closing door makes his bones vibrate in sympathy. It’s the fall of a portcullis, the raising of a drawbridge. Vaas has ordered a cam-bot to lurk in the alcove above, transmitting a holoscan of the face of any approaching Ravager so the Bridge crew can ascertain if they’re friend or foe. The barrier’s nearly impenetrable – and now Yondu, and his babies, are on the wrong side of it. 

Who thought this was a good idea again? 

“We got the brats. What do we do with ‘em? I mean, I’m guessin’ they ain’t like sniffer-dogs. I can’t wave a pair of Igori’s old underoos under their nose and follow ‘em when they scramble away.” 

Farthi’s stare coats disgust with fascination. “An’ what would ya do if I suggested that?” 

Yondu shrugs. “Probably punch ya. Only I get to insult my brats.” A pause. “And Kraglin, I guess.” 

“What of the boy?” 

“Yer holdin’ him.” 

“No, the other one. _Peeta Quill._ ” 

Yondu disentangles the girl’s fingers from his furred collar. He’s still scarcely able to process how small she is, how gentle she’s making him be. Like handling a dashboard ornament made of spun glass… Only if she breaks there’s no glue that’ll stick her back together. Same goes for Junior over there (who’s poking sadly at Farthi’s nipples, with the air of a teenager turned away from a drive-thru). And Quill. 

“If he ever squeezes that inflatable head of his through my cabin door, he can call ‘em whatever the hell he wants.” Farthi snorts, but Yondu shakes his head. “M’serious. They ain’t got names yet. Seein’ as Quill’s being a dick, I really oughta ask ya if you got any ideas. Zatoan heritage-stuff or whatever. But…” He trails off. Farthi’s smile is understanding. 

“But ya still want Peter to name them.” 

It’s stupid to feel so relieved that Farthi ain’t the type to make him justify himself. “No hard feelings?” 

“Only if ya don’t fix this feud soon. Dunno about you, Yondu” – he takes care to pronounce it without the guttural click – “but I’m gettin’ mighty tired of you an’ Quill sulkin’. Thank fuck Igori sparked this shitfest – I was considerin’ starting a mutiny myself.” 

Ass. Yondu would kick him, but that’d jeopardize his precarious grip on his daughter, who by now has migrated to his shoulder and is sitting with her knees bumping on either side of his throat, one hand hooked around the back of his head for stability and the other dangerously close to gouging his nostril. He makes do with a loud raspberry – which both kids automatically copy. 

“Children,” Farthi mutters, wiping spit off the boy’s chin. He brushes dark blue fingertips over the budding streak of a crest, and from the way the boy jibbers a laugh Yondu knows it must tickle. Been so long since he felt that he’s almost forgotten what it’s like. He doesn’t know whether he ought to be jealous or happy that his children are experiencing things he no longer can – but Farthi prevents him from having to make the choice. “Alright. Bring her here. We’ll connect our senses, and I’ll direct them to find this Igori. Um. If you _can_ connect, that is –“ 

Yondu raps his implant. “No can do, m’afraid. This baby clocks where living shit is, but I ain’t got a clue when it comes to emotions or specifics. Or communal unity, and all that fruity hippie shit.” 

Farthi blinks dryly. “I’d never have guessed.” But he gestures him over anyway, and has him squeeze the children’s spare hands together, miniature pastel fingers trapped in the clasp of large blunt blue ones, to complete the circle. He’s seperate, irreparably so. But still a part. And as forced as it feels, Yondu’s grateful. 

*** 

“There we go,” says Doc Mijo. She smoothes the bandage over Zqo’s bicep. Her lilac skin is more aubergine now, puffy with bruising, while the tissue ringing the plasma-burn blisters yellow-white. It’s all kinds of gross. Zqo, catching him staring, raises a middle finger. 

“Any word from boss?” she croaks. Peter shakes his head. The comm’s been silent, and all his attempts to instigate communication have been unreciprocated. Yondu must be busy. Or mad at him. Or sneaking up on someone. Or dead – 

Mijo whaps his temple with her stethoscope. Peter bows forwards, clutching the new bruise – “Ow! What the fuck?” 

“Don’t you get mopey. He’s fine.” 

“Oh yeah?” Peter bypasses his usual first course of action, which is to loudly correct anyone who insinuates he gives a shit about Yondu’s well-being. “And how do you know?” 

Mijo points to the camera read-outs of the corridor outside, Horuz side-stepping to clear their view. On one screen, Igori and his gang of thugs. That’s no surprise. They’ve been bashing on the hatch for the past half hour – which Peter would’ve told Yondu if he could only get through to him. Luckily, the medbay’s got damn thick blast doors – and a decent-sized ventilation pipe, should the need to escape grow too dire. 

…Which, considering the size of the ram one of Igori’s henchmen is hefting, is gonna happen sooner rather than later. 

Peter clutches the butt of his pistol in lieu of pearls. “Shit! We gotta move –“ 

Horuz snorts. “If ya think I’m cramming myself in one of them ducts again…” 

“Stay here and face ‘em then! Or join ‘em! I don’t care –“ 

“Y’know what? If it means I get to kill ya, I just might!” 

“That,” says Zqo, wobbling to her feet, “would be a bad idea.” And she motions to the camera screen that’d caught Mijo’s eye before: not the one showing Igori, as Peter’d assumed, but the one that surveys the corridor over. 

“Shit,” says Peter again. This time it’s less vehement and more disbelieving. The blood drains from his head all the way down to his toes, and he has to give himself a rapid check-over to ensure he’s not exsanguinating. 

Horuz puts his thoughts into words, bending to squint at the liquid-crystal display – which shows a miniature Yondu and Farthi, lugging two very familiar loads. “The fuck did he bring the spawn for?” 

*** 

“Around the next corner,” Farthi murmurs. 

The tracking works something like this: Farthi taps into the sproglets’ neural net, and (working off his own memories of Igori alongside Yondu’s description) hones their scattered thoughts into a probe that scans the entire _Eclector_. Being a structure composed entirely of metal – not even wood, or anything that had at least _been_ alive at some point in its history – scouring the galleon top-to-bilges had sapped the twins’ energy faster than an hour of intense baby-aerobics. Farthi’s drooping too. His sagging fin almost brushes his bow, hooked on his left shoulder, and from the sluggish way he moves Yondu knows he ain’t gonna be using it. 

“I’ll handle the whistlin’,” he offers. “Yer on babysitting duty.” 

It’s as he twists to bestow his burden on Farthi – the girl fast asleep and chewing on her thumb – that his foot clips a wire. 

Yondu has half a second to think ‘what the fuck’. 

Another half to think ‘shit’. 

A further half to dive Farthi to the ground. 

Somewhere amidst all that, he prays they don’t squish the brats. Luckily, Centaurian kids are designed to be able to handle the occasional plummet from whatever tree they’re climbing. They bounce. That doesn’t relieve Yondu’s panic any less, as time slows to a crawl and he curves his body over the children plastered between him and Farthi, waiting for the heat of a bomb against his back. 

Dammit. He shoulda known Igori’d booby-trap. He shoulda been more careful, he shoulda watched his feet, he shoulda… 

…Died approximately five seconds ago, by his reckoning. 

“Ma’ma?” squeaks one of the babies – Yondu can’t see which. He’ll freak out about that later. For now, he should probably stop crushing them. 

Yondu rolls off, adrenaline he hadn’t had time to smother making his muscles quake like jelly. “My bad,” he says to Farthi, coughing to clear his throat. “False alarm.” 

Farthi’s eyes are still wide with shock. As they register what’s behind Yondu, their pupils shrink to pinpricks. 

“No,” says Igori. A barrel clonks Yondu’s implant, the chill of the metal percolating to sensors buried beneath the gemstone’s surface. “It wasn’t.” 

*** 

“Whaddowe do? Whaddowe _do?_ ” Peter, who’s been repeating that same sentiment at higher and higher pitch, reels as Mijo’s palm introduces itself to his cheek. 

“What they say.” She turns back to the monitor, expression grim. Peter, clutching his smarting jaw, sputters a moment before gathering himself and nodding. 

Horuz helps Zqo wobble towards the doors, Peter and Mijo padding after her. Then, as stipulated in Igori’s demands, they remove all weapon belts, pouches, harnesses, stowed knives and makeshift shanks (Zqo pulls a particularly wicked toothbrush-plus-razor combo from the back of her pants, which is both impressive and terrifying). These are dropped without discrimination into a pile before them, so Igori can rifle through and select his favourites while his men pat them down. After that… Well, Peter doesn’t want to think about _after that_. 

At the moment, it’s a simple game of exchange. Igori’s got the captain. Peter’s got the medbay: one of the most defensible parts of the ship, full of equipment that’ll be invaluable should this escalate into all-out civil war. And while Peter doubts Igori plans to let Yondu or his children (Peter included) walk out of this alive, it’s not as if they have any other choice. 

He sucks in a deep breath, rocking on the balls of his feet. Closes his eyes. Counts to three. Exhales, and nods – the signal for Mijo to open the door. 

*** 

First thing Yondu wants to do is smack Peter. 

Well, second thing technically. First on his list is butchering Igori, and every one of his good-for-nothing cronies. But after that? And – _okay_ – after calming his babies, because some buxom Shi’ar woman is holding them and they’re crying and reaching for him and there’s _nothing he can do?_ Smacking Peter’s top of his list. 

He tries to convey all this with his eyebrows. There’s few other modes of communication available to him, given what’s stuffed in his mouth to prevent him whistling – a gag that smells, looks, and tastes suspiciously like a sweaty sock. Igori pats it, ignoring Yondu’s snarl. He’s behind him, using him as a full-body shield. The gun to his head has been exchanged for a knife, which sits in dangerous proximity to his pulsepoint. It twitches whenever the sproglets exude a particularly earsplitting shriek. 

“Shut them up before I make ‘em,” he growls. Yondu thins his eyes at him, because how the fuck’s he supposed to do that when they’re all the way over there? Realizing his predicament, Igori nods the woman forwards. She delivers them into Yondu’s arms with no little relief. 

And, well, Yondu definitely can’t die now. Kraglin’d be so pissed if the brats got bathed in their carrier’s blood; that sorta shit causes lasting trauma. Yondu don’t want his legacy to be two fucked up little psychopaths. 

The bob of his throat as he swallows slits a slim red line under his ear. The children cling to him and nuzzle at his chest. He can’t force air through his mouth, and breathing’s hard enough when there’s blood crusting your nostrils. No chance of humming their favorite tune. Yondu can only sway back and forth, praying they can’t sense the wrath and fear that are bubbling for dominance in his gut. 

As usual, wrath wins. Wrath and determination. 

Yondu looks at Peter. 

Okay. So this is stupid. But it’s a chance. He’s gotta act soon, or Igori’s goons will complete their searching of the medbay for sabotage. Yondu knows what his odds are as soon as those blastdoors close behind him. It’s a nice round number. At least this way, his brats get out alive… 

There’s no way to signal to Farthi. Yondu just hopes he’s quick on the uptake. 

A Ravager stalks out the medbay. She barges Mijo and Horuz aside (who wait with their hands above their heads, Zqo and Quill similarly restrained besides them). “All clear,” she roars. 

Igori’s smile creeps along his cheeks like a slow-spreading rot. His breath flares hot against Yondu’s ear. All of him is hot, in fact: he’s plastered to his spine tighter than a parasite, the only hint of coldness the icy blade that caresses Yondu’s neck. He’s so close Yondu can smell him through the coppery reek of his own spilt blood. Like mildew and gangrene. And that’s just his halitosis. 

“C’mon,” he orders, pushing forwards. Yondu either has to walk with him or fall, cutting his own carotids along the way. Squeezing the whimpering babies, Yondu focusses on Peter and shuffles as directed. 

Igori notes the direction of his gaze. His chuckle is dark and malicious. He hauls Yondu around once they’ve passed the prisoners, his fellow traitors congregating at his back, so he doesn’t have to break that ocular connection. “Thas right. Take a good long look at Quill here. S’the last time you’ll be seeing him.” The knife shifts, just for a second, to twizzle mockingly on the stretched corner of his lips. The gag stifles Yondu’s warning growl. “Shame ya won’t be saying goodbye…” 

The Klyntar patting down Peter tosses its head back to cackle, concentration diverted. Yondu knows he ain’t gonna have a better chance. 

Tossing a baby while a guy spoons you vertically turns out to be difficult. Tossing two is worse. Yondu doesn’t have the best range-of-motion in his shoulders, hindered both by Igori’s proximity and the bruises from the whaling he’d received, before Igori brought him here for use as a bargaining chip. But he does his best. Thankfully, the Klyntar’s grip is loose enough that Peter can dive, snatching them out of the air and rolling. That moment’s all Igori needs to swear and drag his knife lengthways over Yondu’s windpipe – but Yondu grabs his plated forearm a second before the blade bites in. 

He can’t spare a hand to tug out the gag and whistle. It takes all his strength to prevent Igori from twisting his wrist by that millimetre that’ll see every pint of blood in his body gushing from his throat like water from a fountain. Thus they struggle for a desperate moment, before Farthi wriggles from his captor’s grip and whaps his boot off Igori’s shin. 

The pain makes his muscles spasm. Yondu feels damp on his collar. For a horrible moment, he wonders whether the image of Peter donkey-kicking the Klyntar in the bollocks and rolling him and the sproglets away from his toppling body will be the last he ever sees. Then he realizes the blood’s from Igori’s hand; Yondu’s ragged nails have shredded his flesh. 

And that knife’s not clutched nearly as tightly as it had been scant seconds ago. 

He gouges his nails deep, vicious as a biting mutt. He delights in the sensation of tearing tendons before Igori’s fingers spring apart of their own accord and the knife clatters to the floor, bouncing off Yondu’s belt buckle on the way. Then it’s a simple effort to rip the sock from his mouth and spin to Quill – who’s staring agog at the Ravagers behind Yondu, all thirty-odd of them, who’ve had more than enough opportunity to swallow their shock. They’re in the midst of weapon-prepping, and Yondu’s out of time... 

“Quill,” he bellows, deflecting Igori’s attempt to haul him into a chokehold. “You getcher brother and sister outta here, boy! Thas an order!” 

Quill dithers. Dammit, Yondu’s half-tempted to whistle at _him_ , see if that kicks his ass into gear. Then he hears a faint yet unmistakable – “Buvva?” 

Quill glances at the infants. He’s holding them without any finesse, obviously unpracticed, but they appreciate that now’s not the time for making bids for freedom. The moment when their gazes lock feels like it could stretch forever. Quill freezes, shell-shocked, as the boy echoes his sister: “Buvva!” 

Then time comes rushing in with a crack. A very loud one. 

Mijo spins her cane – serves Igori right for underestimating a non-combatant cripple – and breaks it over the Klyntar’s head, before he can right himself from his foetal curl and tear through Quill’s. He drops like a stone. Quill accelerates away, barely getting his legs under him before he starts to sprint. He rounds the corner before Igori can organize pursuit. 

Yondu relaxes. Now at least he knows Kraglin ain’t gonna resurrect him for the sole purpose of telling him ‘I told you so’ – which could well’ve occurred if he’d let their brats get hurt. (Of course, he doesn’t see kidnapping and death threats as emotionally damaging. That shit builds character.) He puts his new-freed mouth to good use, mowing down the couple of assholes who make to dog Peter’s trail. But that’s all he manages before Igori roars and knocks him to the floor facedown. 

Yondu’s breath rushes out, lungs deflating entirely. His whistle splinters into hyperventilation as he gasps like a drowning man, bucking futilely against Igori’s weight. 

Horuz is next to throw his captor, putting his superior size to good use. Farthi scurries over and shoots the man in the head close-range. But Zqo has significantly more struggle with hers. When Mijo spins to help, a shot rings out and blood explodes from her bad leg. Her scream is echoed by Horuz’s, considerably deeper but no less agonized, as he breaks for the weapon pile but is tasered in the back before he can get halfway. 

Yondu, blinking furiously and demanding his inner ears orientate themselves sooner rather than later, purses his lips to whistle again, change the tides in their favour. But before his arrow’s zipped through the nearest three Ravagers – so much for leaving as many as possible alive – Igori bashes his head off the floor. Yondu curves forwards at the last moment, absorbing as much of the blow as he can with his implant. Saves him a cracked browbone. But it jars him from the crown of his skull to its base. His brain joggles like a pea in a maraca, nauseous and dizzy. Yondu braces himself in useless preparation as Igori hauls him up, meaning to dash him headfirst again and again, into unconsciousness and beyond. 

If he’d had doubts about Zqo and the part she played in instigating this mess, they’re annulled. The man restraining her is watching them tussle, obviously eager to claim he’d witnessed the infamous Ravager captain whistle his last. His grip might be tight, but so long as she doesn’t yank away, his attention’s elsewhere. So when Zqo leans against him he pays it little mind. Until she wrestles the gun from his holster and squeezes off a shot. 

Her wounded bicep sends it wide, clipping Igori’s ear rather than bursting his cranium. 

Yondu ain’t complaining. This here’s _his_ kill. 

Snorting blood-bubbles from his nose, Yondu grits his teeth. Sadly that’s not conductive to whistling. He has to force his jaw to relax before he can trill the note that’ll puncture Igori’s stomach sack, leave his innards to digest themselves in fifteen prolonged minutes of agony. Igori, still deafened from the blaster fire and with one ear dangling by a sinewy thread, stares at his new hole in confusion. 

Then the acid burn sets in. 

He wails, louder than Yondu’s babies. This time, when Yondu throws him, he doesn’t – can’t – resist. 

Yondu rises to his feet, slow but steady. His arrow whizzes around him, glossy with Igori’s blood. It responds to his general fury rather than any specific commands, whirling faster and faster, red radiation trailing it like air currents in a tornado. He knows he must look demonic: nose and mouth streaked in blue, forehead bruised, teeth (when he bares them) rimmed with blood. And he capitalizes on it. 

“Well?” he asks. It’s addressed to Igori’s men; the man himself is squirming and writhing in a pool of his own leaked fluids. Yondu’s arrow shudders to a halt an inch from the eyeball of the goon holding Zqo, who by now has recovered his pistol – he immediately drops it and steps away from her, hands palm-up. She hurries to Mijo’s side, helping her sit. Opposite them, Farthi kicks Horuz until he starts to show signs of life – that, or he’s spasmodically twitching. 

But Yondu can’t worry about either of them. Smirking, he advances a step. The power-rush as the mutineers scurry rearwards is almost worth the blazing ache in his skull. “What’ve you sods got t’say for yerselves?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **They'll get their names next chapter! It's gonna focus on Peter and the babus~ :3**
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> **Also, sorry if the editing's shoddy. Exams can eat my ass.**
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> **Also Yondu, if you don't want your kids to call you mom, don't refer to yourself as that in front of them...**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **FINA-FUCKING-LLY**

Once upon a time, Peter wanted siblings.

That desire has long-since diminished. In fact, it faded in perfect synchrony with the two eggs that plopped onto his captain’s folded pants in the dim, green-lit room of a Kree battleship. 

Ugh. Just thinking about that day makes Peter’s bile duct go into overdrive. That was so much more of Yondu than he’d ever wanted to see. Yet somehow, having assisted in the birthing (‘assisted’ as in: acted as Yondu’s body pillow/stressball and managed not to vomit) makes holding the spawn who’ve robbed him of his rightful place into less a trial and more a… 

Well, Peter doesn’t know how to describe the warm fuzzy feeling in his chest. At least, not without proclaiming it to _be_ ‘warm and fuzzy’, words which most definitely should _not_ be applied to any relationship between himself and the twin terrors. 

Or ‘the usurpers’. That’s a good name. 

Because at the end of the day, his and Yondu’s shtick of not-acknowledging-they-give-a-damn-about-each-other is a handy act: one which can be assumed whenever allegations of ‘softness’ hit too close for comfort. Only now Peter realizes he was never a son. Only a surrogate. These two infants he’s holding – although should they be called infants, when they can scramble about like spider-monkeys, climbing anything that’s in reach? – are the genuine product. The real deal. Actual, bona fide _children_ , born to parents who aren’t afraid to say they love them. 

Peter should hate them – and he does. He really, truly does. Yet he can’t bring himself to head for the nearest airlock. 

He doesn’t know why. That would be the most sensible option, yes? _A Ravager takes what they want._ That’s one of several adages, many contradictory and most amoral, that’ve been drummed into Peter’s head via repetition until the words lose all meaning. If someone stands between a Ravager and their goals, that someone is removed – quickly and efficiently or limb by limb, whichever the situation calls for. 

But rather than abandoning the brats for a nearby conspirator to stumble across, when their blue fingers (tiny, _tiny_ blue fingers) catch and tug on Peter’s hair he doesn’t swat them off. Just grits his teeth and runs faster. 

*** 

He can’t flee forever. He knows it. Certainly not when the twins have grown bored of flopping in his arms and have made it their mission to conquer Mount Quill, dodging all of Peter’s fumbling attempts to dissuade them. 

Little blighters are _fast._ Tiny, fast, freakily well-developed little… _aliens_. But Peter was raised by aliens, and he knows not to discriminate. Perhaps this means he’ll only have to wait a coupla years before the twins are big enough to be co-conspirators in pranks? Think of the _shenanigans_ they could have… 

But that sits a mite close to the urbanity of Terran siblinghood for Peter’s liking. Swallowing, he shrugs off the girl – or is it the boy? Fuck these matching jumpsuits – and drops to his knees, hooking the grill off the duct. 

They’re in a rarely-traversed hallway, a dead-end with a dusty portal that stares out into space with cycloptic apathy. Peter knows it well. The only tracks through the grime are the footprints of an eight-year-old Terran who, two or so decades ago, had wedged himself into the air vents to escape a monstrous band of brigands who he was sure were going to make him into chop suey. It’d been his favourite hiding place for years. He’d come here whenever he missed mom too much to face the locker-room jibing of the crew, or Yondu pissed him off, or he just needed to be alone with his thoughts. As time passed the visits had become more and more seldom. Nowadays Peter has other distractions to fill his time, and considers himself too old for hiding. 

But there’s nothing like a mutiny to encourage a return to old habits. Right now the network of pipes that tunnels between the _Eclector’s_ vast floors like the worm holes in Shorro’s biscuits (‘extra protein’ Peter’s ass), is the safest place aboard. 

Peter realizes the flaw in his plan a minute too late. That minute, unfortunately, is more than enough time for him to get himself wedged in a duct that’s not nearly as spacious as he recalls. Stupid Terran growth spurts. 

“You guys okay?” he whispers to the brats, who’re in danger of being smothered if he takes a full breath. Dust swirls around them, filling the brighter chinks between the bars on the ventilation grill, whch are set too narrowly to refract the light. His answer comes in two squeaks and a loud “Bubba!” 

Peter shakes his head. “No! No ‘bubba’. Quiet. You gotta be quiet… Do you know ‘quiet’?” 

Their noisy smatter of clicks indicates a negative. 

“Aw heck. Okay. Let’s play a different game.” Why had he never asked Yondu to teach him Centaurian? The only words Peter knows are ‘help’, ‘danger’, and a couple of cusses. “Let’s play… uh, try and get Peter –“ 

“Bubba!” 

“Bubba, try and get _Bubba_ , unstuck.” He feels something warm and wet on his shoulder. “Oh God. Not like that.” 

Now damp from the waist down, the twin nearest his left ear crumples their face in gargoyle-like sorrow. Peter hurries to amend himself before the screams start: “Uh, uh no, that was actually a great idea! Congratulations! Look –“ He nearly dislocates his shoulder, pulling it from where it’s caught behind the ridge where one pipe joins another. To his surprise, he discovers that leather slides easier when it’s moistened. “Well done!” he praises, wondering belatedly if congratulating a baby for peeing on him will be a bad idea in the long run. Oh well. So long as Yondu’s the victim of future attacks, he can deal. “Okay. So I’m not stuck. I’m also drenched in baby-pee. But it could be worse.” 

On cue, the other twin spots a glimmer in the darkness behind him. Before Peter can tighten his grip it’s wriggled away, slippery as a weasel. Their tiny red crest, no taller than Peter’s pinky nail, gleams salmon-pink in the dull grey light. Peter moans. Quietly. Then spots the second twin assessing his wet hand with what can only be described as a calculating look. “Oh no. Don’t you dare. Not you too. If I lose one I can pull a few favours and get you cloned, but I need to preserve _some_ genetic material –“ 

His words fall on deaf – or uncomprehending – ears. Twin Numero Duo shoots him a cheeky grin, which is alarming given how many sharp, puppyish teeth are poking through their violet gums. It squirms from his slippery grip, and scarpers. 

“Fuck,” Peter says. 

*** 

There’s no chance of turning around – vents are too cramped, or Peter’s shoulders too wide. He opts for a rapid rearwards shuffle, praying he stumbles across a more spacious compartment before one of the twins gets under-knee. 

They’re creepily feylike – he’s always thought so, since Yondu first swanned onto Bridge with one in his pouch and the other dangling in his arms. Each is formed more like a toddler than an infant, but they’re no larger than a premature newborns. Given how thin and fragile their bones are, if Peter accidentally squishes one as he reverses there’s no way it’s bouncing back. 

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried. The twins have found something else to occupy their attention. A grimy steel fan whirs behind a mesh grate – luckily, the holes are too thin to accommodate curious blue fingers. The artificial airflow pulls on Peter’s hair as he enters the atrium – or at least, what passes for an atrium in this corner of the _Eclector_ : an alcove at the confluence of four ducts, the plates clattering hollowly under his hands and knees. The ceiling’s still slung so low that Peter has to stoop, but at least it’s wide enough for him to scoot about on his ass. 

By the time he faces the twins, he’s coaxed his face into a scowl. “Now listen, you two.” He wags a finger – then retracts it when one twin’s teeth snap closed a scant inch away. “No more running from me. From Peter – uh, Bubba.” 

Their giggle isn’t especially reassuring. Peter reconsiders his tactics, fingering the squishy foam of his headphones where they brush his stubbled cheeks. Then, after a moment of indecision, hooks the contraption from its usual resting place around his neck and places them on the sloped floor of the vent between him and the two damp and squirming terrors. They’d better not piss on it, or all previous statements about not-throwing-them-out-an-airlock will be swiftly and mercilessly retracted. 

“You guys like music?” he asks. 

*** 

Kraglin laughs. Then frowns, when Yondu joins in a full five seconds late. “You ain’t joking.” 

It’s rumoured that lying to someone you love is difficult. Yondu makes it look as slick as the glide of a well-greased valve in an M-ship engine at take-off. “Yeah,” he says, leaning against the wall: a casual picture offset by the smear of Igori’s blood, which stains his jacket like spilt plum juice. “Ya got me. S’just a joke. I ain’t _lost ‘em_ – who d’you think I am? They’re back in our room, havin’ a nap. You stay here; I’ll go fetch.” 

And kick Peter’s ass while he’s at it. Because when he told the boy to hide, he meant so _Igori_ couldn’t find him, not so that _no one_ could. 

A truth serum would’ve been fooled. Kraglin’s powers of intuition are somewhat harder to trick. He crosses his arms, the creak of leather making Yondu’s easy grin waver, and readjusts his weight so he’s leaning into his mate’s personal space. “Why don’t you stay here sir, an’ _I’ll_ fetch ‘em?” 

Yondu backs up – or at least, retreats an inch before he smacks wall, finding himself boxed in by Kraglin’s wiry form. Sure, he dragged Kraglin to an unoccupied corner of the Bridge as soon as his voice rung through the rising celebrations: “Yondu? Where’s the babies?” But that doesn’t mean a few curious eyes haven’t followed them. Having his worst suspicions fulfilled with regards to his crew’s mutinous tendencies hasn’t helped Yondu’s paranoia; softness equals vulnerability, and baring his throat to Kraglin in public is practically an invitation for an ambitious knife to embed itself between his vertebrae. He shoves Kraglin back a pace, substituting nervousness for anger. 

“Fuck off. I give the orders – an’ anyway, I gotta get this blood out.” He plucks at his soggy shirt, grimacing. Kraglin thins his eyes at him. He looms long enough that there’s no mistaking his scepticism – or what Yondu’s gonna get tonight in retaliation. Only when Yondu’s scowl threatens to purse into a whistle does he step away. 

“Alright sir. See you in ten.” 

Yondu snorts, as if to say that he’ll take as long as he damn well pleases. He’s sure to bash Kraglin’s shoulder as he storms past, almost bowling his scrawny ass over, and ignores the pounding headache from where Igori had attempted to pulverize his skull long enough to wave to Isla and Czar. They’ve already begun popping bottles. Yondu nabs one, although given how wobbly his vision is, alcohol might be a poor idea. Changing his mind, he drops it into the lap of a nearby navigator and whistles at Farthi (making several junior Bridge members jump clean out of their ill-fitting boots, and that same poor navigator slosh moonshine over control console and pants alike). Farthi excuses himself from his chugging competition with Horuz, who’s too deep in his tankard to notice, and slopes over, his newly recovered coat hanging loose on his bare blue shoulders. 

“Somethin’ the matter?” 

“Need yer thingie a moment.” 

Farthi blinks. “My…” 

“Thingie.” Yondu waves at his crest; he’s too tired to formulate proper concepts. Now the adrenaline’s receded, he’d like nothing more than to curl up on his chair: crew, Kraglin, and babies be damned. But _noooo_ , he’s gotta be a _responsible adult_. A _parent_ , at that! He’s gotta find his wayward progeny, Quill included. 

Boy’d better not have dropped ‘em. And he’d better be alive too, otherwise Yondu’ll have to hunt down Thanos and beg a favour from his Lady Death so he can resurrect Quill and punch him properly. Maybe… Maybe hug him, too. He ain’t done that in a while. Even Quill deserves better than a whap around the ear, on occasion. 

*** 

“Okay,” Peter grunts as he heaves his bulk through the cramped duct, conducting an about-turn on his hands and knees. “I’m impressed. You must’ve inherited my dancing genes.” 

Yeah yeah, he’s the adopted one – but it ain’t as if he ever completed high school biology. Beyond a vague and confusing lecture once Peter was deemed old enough to loiter in bars without supervision, given in snippets over several weeks by Mijo, Yondu, Kraglin and Isla, his knowledge of reproduction, alien or otherwise, is hazy at best. 

But he’s sure Yondu and Kraglin aren’t to thank for the twin’s two-stepping. They’re borderline _graceful_. He still can’t work out which one’s the girl and which the boy, so he’s referring to them as ‘dry’ and ‘wet’ in his mind – and trying to keep his soggy sleeve as far from the rest of him as the narrow space allows. But watching them crawl and roll about to the beat, occasionally attempting moves they must have seen the Ravagers throwing during one of their biweekly boozefests, Peter’s struck by an epiphany. One he’s put off far too long. 

*** 

Peter squirms through a pipe that bisects top deck port to starboard, hoping he comes across an access shaft before he hits one of the many automatic waste disposal ports that stud the _Eclector_ ’s outer epidermis. He’s only got one spacemask. While it might be large enough for the twins to share if they held still, he doesn’t like his chances without it. Anyway, so much for knowing this labyrinth like the back of his hand. The _Eclector_ is one massive abdominal sac; were its innards to be unwound they would extent many times its own length. As a result, the vent system is more complex than the Paris catacombs, and about as poorly documented. Their galleon’s been in Ravager hands since long before Yondu wore the red, but no one’s ever bothered to shove a rookie into this network of steely tubes armed with a ball of twine and an emergency flare, and told them they get to eat only once they find the other end. 

That, or those unfortunate rookies never came out. 

Peter’s seen bones in the ducts before. He remembers finding a whole body once: propped besides a bloody fan from where a safety grill had broken or a repair job gone horrifically awry. Now though, small, clean-picked piles line their passage, rattling when they’re kicked loose. They’ve been dragged into cairns by the omnivorous rat-like critters that infest the _Eclector_ ’s viscera. He sometimes hears them pattering about below him, or spots them from the corner of his eye. They’re only there a second before they catch his scent: then they hiss, bare yellow fangs, and dart away. 

That’s another reason why Peter insists the twins go in front of him. He’s gone to too much effort to let them become rat-chow. He disguises this fear much as he disguises all the others – _Yondu might be dead, the crew might be hostile, we might be lost in here forever_. That is: valiantly, and with many cheerful smiles and hissed pleas that the damn brats wait for him. 

So far, only one restraining method has been successful. Peter keeps his music on low volume. The twins have to slow their rapid all-fours gait if they don’t want to leave it behind. He can tell they’re tiring of the game though: the damper of the two is plucking at the seat of their pants in discomfort, and they’ve both started to yawn. They can’t keep this up much longer. 

Thus, it’s a relief when the grate below him is unfastened in a rusty screech, and a blue hand grabs his ankle. 

Peter yelps as Yondu yanks his leg, bringing him slithering through the hole. “Gotcha,” he huffs. That’s more than figurative, as Peter’s landed on top of him. He glares through his wheezes, although his winding is own damn fault: if he didn’t want a two hundred pound Terran collapsing on his gut he oughta have popped the grate and hollered like a normal person. 

But normal doesn’t even begin to describe Yondu. Peter’s thoughts on this matter are cinched when Yondu doesn’t shove him off. Rather, heedless of the dust and grub coating him, he wraps him in his arms and squeezes so tight he’s barely shy of cracking a rib. Peter chokes, kicking feebly. “Whaddid I do? Whaddid I do?” 

Above, he sees Farthi scaling the wall, boots kicked off besides Yondu’s so his twelve flexible toes can grip at the uneven parqueting. The old centaurian – and dammit, but fuck his metabolism; no grandpa should be that fit – hauls his head and shoulders through the hatch and whistles a soft flurry of peeps. For some reason, Yondu clutches Peter harder. 

“Don’t sing ‘em that song!” he snaps. His voice resounds with that whipcord-fast fury Peter’s feared since he first came aboard. For once though, it isn’t directed at him. “No Hammer-man,” Yondu mutters, shaking his head like a man coming out of a dream. But then he focusses his attention on the overgrown slab of pink muscle, red leather, and grotty vent-contents pinning him to the floor. He loosens his grip – just so that Peter can interpret the gesture as it was intended. 

Ah. Not a stranglehold after all. 

“Thank you,” Yondu says. He almost sounds sincere. 

Peter doesn’t remember the last time they were this close – other than when they’d passed each other under Igori’s cold supervision, but that hardly counts. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d been immersed in the captain’s embrace, his warmth, his smell, the weird reptilian smoothness of his skin or the scratch of his beard on Peter’s grubby neck. He certainly doesn’t remember the last time he wanted to hug Yondu rather than shake him, or scream in his face that Peter’s his son too. 

For some reason, his eyes have gotten all misty. Must be the dust. 

Peter scrubs them, praying Yondu doesn’t notice. He returns the embrace to give himself an excuse not to sit and reveal his face in all its puffy glory. Stupid sentiment. Farthi, balancing a twin per hand, hops lightly from his perch and spares a crinkly smile for the two red-coated Ravagers on the floor, clinging to each other so tightly it’ll take a spatula to unstick their leathers. 

“Shall I take them to change?” he inquires, hoisting the moister of the two by their ankles. They giggle and squeak, discomfort temporarily forgotten, and bat at his nose with miniature palms. 

“Nah.” Yondu wriggles from Peter’s embrace – spares an arch look for his wobbling chin, and pointedly turns his back. “Go deliver ‘em to daddy. He’s so desperate to see ‘em, he can deal with the clean-up.” Brushing dust from his lapels – a contagion caught from Peter, who’s more than liberally coated – he gets his boots under him and makes to stand. Peter catches his sleeve. 

“Wait.” He’s almost got himself under control. His voice’s hoarse, but not as jerky as he’d feared. Yondu evidently appreciates it. He thumbs a salty streak off Peter's cheek – and doesn’t gouge his eye with his ragged blue thumbnail while he’s at it! 

“Ya did good, boy,” he says, husk deep and satiated as a cat’s purr. “Saved yer lil’ brother and sister, just like I told ya.” 

Peter smirks, striking the last of the tears away. “Wish I’d brought a tape recorder. But before you head for the Bridge… Don’t you wanna know what they’re called?” 

There’s a pause. Then Yondu grabs his shoulder plate and hauls him to his feet. “They better not be any variation on ‘Milano’, thas all I’m sayin’…” 

“Fred.” Peter pokes the wet twin in his forehead. “Ginger.” That’s the other. “A right little double-act of dancers you’ve got here, captain.” 

There’s a silence while Yondu processes this new information, his Xandarian translator making little sense of the Terran names. Then he groans. “Fuck. More _dancers_. Jus’ what we need.” 

“Aw, don’t complain!” The three of them set off, twins lolling over Farthi’s sturdy torso as Peter loops a thick arm across Yondu’s shoulders. “This dancer’s got you out of more crises than you can count. You should be grateful.” 

The tinny whine of _Fooled Around and Fell In Love_ clicks to a halt, only to be replaced by the treacle-smooth opening chords of _Moonage Daydream_. Peter finds himself humming along, rocking from side to side as he walks. For once Yondu doesn’t complain about being barged every other step. He even copies his sway – just a little, so he doesn’t fall over as Peter’s rhythmic bopping becomes more enthusiastic. 

“Which one’s the girl?” he remembers to ask as they round the corner. Yondu, of course, points to Fred – who claps her pudgy hands and squeals “Mama!” 

At least he’s not the only one guilty of misgendering. 

Taking note of Yondu’s scowl and hasty correction – “ _Dada_!” – Peter figures it’s in his best interests to vindicate himself. “Not that it matters. I mean, ‘Fred’ and ‘Ginger’ are totally unisex. Just… Let’s not swing by Earth any time soon, hmm?” 

Yondu smirks and smacks the back of his head, blue fingers tangling in the curls a moment too long. He breaks away from Peter before they reach the Bridge doors, crossing to relieve Farthi of his marginally less-sticky burden. But Peter isn’t given a minute to nourish the old stew of jealousy: next moment Yondu pushes the newly-named Ginger into his arms. 

“Bubba,” he says. Fidgets until he’s comfortable, then closes his shell pink eyes and drops into the dreamless sleep of one who feels entirely safe and secure. 

“Brother,” Peter whispers back. The harsh lights of the bridge sharpen the shadows beneath all of their eyes. But while Yondu strides ahead, isolating himself so he can swagger through the ranks and greet his boys with bumped fists and jagged grins, Peter can’t bring himself to mind. 

He’s home. He’s with family. And the grey dust smearing his footprints recedes with every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I've had a hard time getting in the writing zone lately... Too many hangovers and too little sleep, that's my expert diagnosis. Anyway, I hope this chapter isn't too bitty as a result.**
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> **Massive thanks to all who have left reviews - and especially everyone who suggested names. Plus, big congrats to Vishihan, the winner of this lil game! I've certainly dragged the surprise out way too long for it to be climactic, but I knew as soon as I saw 'Fred and Ginger' that it was meant to be. Classical Hollywood musicals are one of many, many guilty pleasures (although considering that I'm currently writing one fic about eggpreg and another about Peter/Yondu (with A/B/O dynamics!), Classical Hollywood isn't that 'guilty' a pleasure in comparison...)**
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> ****Also, to anyone who enjoys Ravager stuff - head on over to the ask-a-ravager tumblr!****
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**Author's Note:**

> **Do leave comments!! Think of them as your payment for awesome free fic. x**


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